Most Beautiful Song
by XxScriboLegoxX
Summary: Sansa is terrified that King Joffrey will be wanting her soon, but she cannot bear the thought of him being her first. She thinks of who she would rather give herself too. She is shocked to find her decision is only too easy. [SansaXSandor]
1. Chapter 1

Sansa is terrified that King Joffrey will be wanting her soon, but she cannot bear the thought of him being her first. She thinks of who she would rather give herself too. She is shocked to find her decision is only too easy.

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_**Sansa**_

She had heard Joffrey speaking so often about coming into his manhood. How he was now a true king, a man in every way. She had also heard some of his knights joking that he was a man in every way but one. Unfortunately Joffrey had heard it too. She knew he would come for her for he shouted for the world to hear that their marriage would take place within the month and the consummation would occur the very night of the wedding, despite their age and their hatred for each other.

Sansa had gone to her bedroom and threw herself upon the bed, terror rooting itself deeply in her stomach. It was not the loosing of her virginity itself that bothered her so much. She had been preparing herself for that for some time, and it was years ago that she had felt the first stirring of desire in her stomach. It was knowing that Joffrey would not only have the satisfaction of becoming a man, but that he would be her first. She could not bear knowing that was the truth. Let Joffrey think he had deflowered her. She would know the truth.

She considered finding any guard willing to risk his skin for the future queen's cunt, but quickly tossed that idea to the side. She was above that. She was still a lady, no matter what else had happened to her or her family. Then she considered going to Littlefinger. The way he looked at her had always disturbed her, and she had just recently realized that when he looked at her with those hot, dark eyes, the stare that made her feel as if she was wearing no clothes, that he was indeed imagining her in no clothes.

But that also was not a sound plan. She could not give herself to Littlefinger. He was the one that betrayed her father she had managed to discover. He had been in love with her mother. That was why he stared at her so, and she found her stomach turning at the thought. It would be almost as bad as finding a random guard or giving herself to Joffrey pure. These thoughts only lasted a half a second before another name flashed itself before her eyes, searing into her brain.

As hard as she tried she could not rustle up the disgust and horror she knew she should feel. She tried to remember how ugly he looked, the terrible burnt flesh, the drooping eye and mangled lips. Could she really allow him to touch her body? She told herself he was a dog, a hound, and she was a lady. She was above him in every possible way. He had not even accepted a knighthood when it was offered to him. And good too, for he did not deserve it.

But as she thought of how she was above him, she had an image of _him _above _her, _in a completely different way. She felt her cheeks turn hot and her stomach flutter. Perhaps it was because he had saved her life, maybe it was because he tried to give her advice when he had the chance, regardless of whether she listened or not. What would his rough, dirty hands feel like on her soft, smooth skin? Would he accept her into his bed with the animalistic excitement of a dog? Would he tear off her clothing and mount her like a savage? Or perhaps he would be kind and gentle, whisper soft words into her ear.

Though she doubted the latter both images brought more heat to her cheeks. She shook her head. But was Joffrey better? When she imaged Joffrey she felt nothing of the heat between her legs, the redness in her cheeks. And the hound, brusque, cold and insulting, had taken care of her in a way that Joffrey had not. Maybe, for his goodness to her, he deserved this little reward.

Unless he ran to Joffrey and told him of her proposition. She chewed on her lips. Was it worth it? She did not know what the hound would do. She thought she was beautiful, she had been told so many times, and the hound sometimes looked at her the way Littlefinger did, though with less of a predatory glare in his eyes. He had to want her. She was young, pure and beautiful, and he old, scarred, and ugly. He was a dog and she was a lady. She got up and pulled her cloak up over her shoulders.

She moved as swiftly and as quietly as she could. Arya would no doubt be able to slip past everyone unseen, but she was not so skilled. Her legs moved on their own accord as her brain ordered her to turn back. The hound might not even be in his chambers and if he were not, and she were found standing around his rooms, what would people think? It would put them both in danger. But luckily he lodged in a quiet part of the castle where everyone minded their own business. With her cloak pulled up over her head everyone assumed she was a whore going to a client, not the future queen heading off to rob her king of her virginity.

She knocked on the door and swallowed hard. It was late and he was without a doubt off duty, but he might be out drinking or whoring. She had no way of knowing and she found herself praying to the gods that he was both there and away. She felt little beads of sweat break out over her forehead. Not Joffrey. Anyone but Joffrey.

She followed up her first knock quickly with another in short succession. Fast, rapid knocks with her knuckles, insistent and urging. She was in mid knock, her third round of wraps on the heavy door, when it flung open. The Hound stood before her, only his burnt flesh visible in the torch light. She looked over his face, her eyes widening as she arched her neck. Her resolve nearly faltered, and she almost turned to run, but she held herself still, straight, and proud.

"Little bird, you are far from your nest," he rasped and she saw him remove a hand from the hilt of his blade. He had clearly been expecting some sort of fight when he opened the door.

"May I enter, ser?" she asked and swallowed hard again. He frowned, his scarred flesh wrinkling grotesquely. Why did she feel the need to reach up and touch the degusting scare, and kiss his damaged eyelid?

"I am no ser, gods be damned," he grumbled and stepped to the side. She entered and felt her muscles tighten as he closed the door. "Have you come to sing me a song, little bird?"

"Would you like me to sing you a song?" she asked with a defiant tone and turned to face him. She watched him place his sword, in its sheath, on the table. The room was dark, lit by only the fire on the far side of the room. Other than that the room was sparse, empty and impersonal. It seemed the hound owned little.

"Have you offered the king a song yet tonight? Or do I have the honor of being the first?" he asked and her face burned. If she did not know better she would think he knew her scheme, but it was clear from his stance and his face he did not. He was only trying to get a rise from her, but she was here for other reasons. She took a deep breath and let out a little breath before pushing forward. Perhaps she could do this unlady like deed with the subtlety and class of a lady.

"I would prefer you be my first to the king," she answered smoothly. His eyebrows rose. He moved toward the first, his back to her for a moment. He turned to look at her and tilted his head to the side. She could now see only the unburnt flesh, the man he might have been.

"Is that so? You make me blush," he said and she knew he thought she had misspoke, that he could embarrass her with her own words. He did not know she meant exactly what she had said.

"The king means to marry me soon," she said and he nodded.

"Yes, I have heard. I was in the room when he made the announcement," he said plainly and she nodded, blushing slightly. Of course he knew.

"He will be wishing to consummate the marriage," she informed him softly. He was clearly unimpressed.

"As any man would," he said and she looked at him, licking her lips.

"I do not want to give him the satisfaction," she said and he gave her a mocking smile. He stepped to the side and his entire face was better illuminated, the handsome, and the scarred.

"You have little choice. A wife yields to her husband's wishes, little bird. If you wish to remain alive and unharmed, you will give him all that he wants."

"I mean… I do not wish to know he was my first. I know Joffrey must believe it," she breathed. "But I cannot let it happen."

She thought she saw the beginnings of understanding on his face but he was not allowing himself to believe it.

"And so you come here?" he asked, his eyes slowly moving down the length of her body and then back to her face.

"You have been kind to me," she started but he barked out a laugh.

"I? Kind to you? I simply do not like seeing a young girl beaten and ill treated. That is hardly a kindness." His voice reached her on the other side of the room, dark and raspy. She swallowed. She felt her pride slightly wounded. Why was he questioning this? Should he not be pleased? Should he not jump at this chance while he is being presented with it? Surely he understands. She lifted her chin a fraction of an inch in proud defiance.

"I am offering myself to you, dog," she snapped. "Or are you too daft to see that?"

"You assume I think you worth the risk, little bird," he said gravely. "My head, scarred though it is, is better left on my shoulders."

She felt her face burn with humiliation. _He _thought to send _her _away.

"I am worth the risk," she said defensively, but she knew she sounded like a little girl. He barked another laugh. He sat down on the chair and looked her over.

"Prove it little bird, and take off your dress for me," he said and she hesitated. Suddenly she did not want to remove her clothing. She did not want him to look at her. She only wanted him to take his pleasure and be done with it. This was not for him and it was not for her, it was so Joffrey would not get what he was after. Still, she pulled the ties of her cloak and draped it over a couch. "Go on little Bird," he urged. "If you truly wish for this old, burnt dog to have you, then take off your dress."

She saw what he was doing then. He thought she was playing with him and did not want to tip his hand. He wanted her. She could see it. By having her remove her dress he wasn't asking her to prove she was worth the risk, he wanted her to prove she was serious before he committed to an answer. She reached down and gripped the hem of her simple gown. She watched him closely. His eyes became slightly more hooded, his jaw clenching. She watched as the taught burnt flesh tightened further against his jaw bones as he ground his back molars. Removing the belt around her middle was simply enough. Her next task had her mouth dry and her stomach tense. She pulled her dress up over her head with a deep breath. She held it in front of herself, her knuckles turning white as she held onto it for dear life.

The Hound's body stiffened and he leaned forward in the chair. His lips parted and his eyes moved over what flesh was visible to him. He let out a deep breath and raised his hand. He said nothing but beckoned her closer, his eyes on her body. As she came to stand before him his hand darted out with the same speed in which he wielded his sword. His fingers curled around the silk fabric of her dress, wrenching it from her grip. She let out a cry of surprise as it flew from her body, leaving her naked and vulnerable in the fire light.

He stood then and she took a step back. She continued to retreat until he grabbed her upper arm, yanking her to him. Her body slammed into his armor, her breasts crushed against the hard steel.

"Look at me," he growled and bent down. He pulled her to him so tightly and at such an angle that she had to stand on her tip toes. His face was only inches from hers and he forced her to look at his face. She had not studied him so closely since the day he confessed the cause of his burns. "Can you stomach it?"

"I am not disgusted," she whispered. He snarled and shook her.

"Do not lie to me," he rasped low in his throat.

"I am not lying, ser –"

"I am not a ser!" he shouted and she felt tears come to her eyes. His eyes softened for a moment as he looked over his face. He leaned in closer but only hovered over her. His grip softened and his thumb stroked her smooth creamy skin. "I am sorry little bird. I did not mean to frighten you."

"Yes you did," Sansa whispered. "You enjoy frightening people."

"Not you," he said gently and she remembered why she came to him. That same sad look in his eyes when he saw her being mistreated was there now and it touched something deep inside of Sansa. He seemed to her all she had with her brother and family up north. The Hound would keep her safe if he could. "Is this a game? Is this a trick from the king?"

"No, I swear to you, se-. I swear to you," she promised and his eyes moved to look at her breasts where they pressed against his armor. "I do not want Joffrey to have my virginity."

He gave a little nod.

"And what better revenge? His dog taking his lady loves purity," he said softly and she bristled.

"I am not his lady love," she responded.

"Unlatch my breastplate," he said brusquely and released her arm. She hesitated a moment, looking up at him before doing as he said. He removed his armor slowly and she got the scent of him strongly in her nose. Sweat, alcohol, and the smoke of torches. He smelled like a man. A smell Joffrey would never possess. She had been a fool, chasing after these little pretty boys. But her desire was beginning to awaken and she was beginning to mature. It was a man she wanted, and a man the Hound was. When he was in just his tunic and his hose and boots she waited.

"How do you want me?" she asked and held her arms up over her breasts.

"If I ever thought you'd ask me that," he mused. He jerked his head. "Go to the bed, little bird. I won't take your innocence on the floor or against the wall."

She nodded and hurried into the adjoining room. The Hound's rooms were small compared to those of other knights in the realm, but of course he was not a knight. She paused as they went into the bedroom and she chewed on her lip hard.

"Scared girl?" she heard the Hound rasp behind her. She began moving toward the bed, her head rose defiantly. She could feel the Hound's eyes on her naked body as she climbed onto his bed, moving to her hands and knees. She waited for his abrupt thrusting into her body, but she felt nothing. She heard nothing. All she could do was wait.

She looked down at the thick blankets on the bed and the coarse pillows. She imagined him sleeping here at night like any other man, peaceful and gentle. It was hard to do. She gasped when he felt his hands on her hips. She waited for the invasion but it did not come. Instead she was flipped onto his back, her red hair sprawling out around her. Her chest heaved as he settled over her.

"You will look at me," he said. His voice was calm and measured, low and dangerous. "You came to me, you will look upon me."

"That… that wasn't why I gave you my back," Sansa told him, staring up at his face. A second fire was burning from the hearth in his bedroom and lit up his face.

"Oh? It was not to pretend I was someone else?"

"No!" she cried indignantly. "Why would I come to you if I didn't…"

"Didn't _what_, little bird?"

"…Want you," she said, her voice a ghost of a whisper. His face was stone, impassive.

"Why would you go to your hands and knees then?" he clearly did not believe her.

"It… I have only every seen animals, se-… Sandor," she said. His name felt odd on her lips. Foreign. His bark of a laugh frightened her.

"Ah, so you would play the bitch to my dog?" he asked and she turned deep red. "I wander, will you whine like a bitch in heat while I am inside of you?"

"Please stop," she whispered.

"What did you expect from me?" he asked, lowering his face to hers. "Sweet words and gentle caresses? No, I will rut inside of you like the animal I am, but you will look at my face while I do it."

She nodded, her eyes locking on his. Her body trembled when his fingers moved to rub one of her nipples. He looked away from her body and to her face, checking to make sure she was looking at him. His eyes then moved back downward. His finger tips trailed over her smooth skin, touching her breasts, sides and hips. His eyes were hot, carnal desire shining in them, but there was also a gentleness to his gaze.

"That little boy does not deserve you," he rasped. "He will suck the life right out of you."

His finger played between her legs and she sucked in a deep breath. She wanted to tell him that when he spoke to her, when he rescued her from so many cruelties, that he breathed the life back into her, but she remained silent. Her words lost instead in a little moan. She blushed and watched his face intently; waiting for a little mocking taunt, but none came.

There was pain, terrible pain she had not really expected but it passed. She focused instead on the sound of the Hound's panting breaths. As he slid into her she heard him groan deeply, a pleasurable moan of disbelief. She spasmed around him and she clutched at the back of his tunic.

"Aren't you going to kiss me?" she breathed as he moved over her. His eyes locked onto hers. He gave no taunting smiles, no laugh or sneer. He was far too wrapped up in the hot tightness he was enveloped in, the knowledge that she was finally his, at least for a night. How many times had he imagined climbing the stone steps that lead up to her room and have his way with her, whether she wanted it or not? He had dreamed of her soft, naked body underneath him and now it had come true. He could scarcely believe he was not dreaming.

"You wish to press your lips to mine?" he asked breathlessly and her gaze went to his burnt flsh. The pain was less now and there was pressure in her lower belly. It was pressure she had never felt before, but mingled with it was the same type of indescribable blind affection she felt when looking at Ser Loras or Joffrey. But that was when she was just a little girl. She had grown much in the past few months. She looked over the black flesh, the hint of an exposed jaw, the wet, red skin breaking through the charred flesh. His lips were virtually untouched, but skirting along the left side of his mouth was bumpy scar tissue. She wondered if she would feel it if he kissed her.

"Isn't that… what one does…" she breathed a moan escaping her throat against her will. The moan was swallowed by the Hound's mouth as it pressed to hers. His thrusts increased and she writhed underneath him. Pain came in went as he moved and she tried to meet his thrusts. She was in enough control of herself to know she did not want to give the Hound reason to taunt her afterward. She was doing her best to make sure he enjoyed himself, but she did not know how. She only knew the very basics of intercourse and certainly had no skills.

She could feel the mangled tissue on the left side of his mouth against her lips. It felt like he was trying to consume her. His kisses were hard and unyielding. The hand not supporting himself over her was enclosed firmly around her throat, keeping her face in place for his kisses. His thumb stroked her throat, the pressure lessoning and growing in time with the slowing and quickening of his thrusts. When she felt the wetness of his tongue glide over her full, swollen lips she immediately opened her mouth to him. He groaned in approval and his tongue was in her mouth, tasting her.

Her hands, which had been pulling and yanking at his tunic went to thread through his hair. He hissed in a breath when her right hand reached up to the left side of her face and found no hair, but hard scar tissue and the raw nerves of the sensitive skin below where the skin would not heal. But he did not push her away and she did not move her hand. Her chest hummed and she was overwhelmed.

Pleasure, pain, disgust, and desire. It all mingled inside of her. Tears pressed at her eyes as he kissed her, as he felt the mangled skin. What might he have been like, she wondered, if he had not known such cruelty as a boy? It made her want to weep. Instead she moaned and let out little cries. She felt his mouth twist into a smile against her lips.

"Yes, sing for me little bird," he breathed against her mouth. She knew he would laugh at her to himself later, but at his encouragement her little cries increased. The pleasure was not what she had heard it would be, but she thought it might be because she was a virgin and more pain was being felt than actual pleasure. But Clegane no doubt enjoyed himself immensely. He spilled himself inside of her with a low grunt, his hand tightened slightly around her throat but did nothing to constrict her breathing.

Sansa could hear only the sound of their breathing in the dimly lit room and the crackling of fire. The Hound's head was bowed to the crook of her neck, his lips pressing to her neck and shoulder lazily. Her hands went to his back and she felt as it rose and fell.

"Thank you, Ser," Sansa whispered but he said nothing.

"Yes, and let us pray he does not have a maester examine you," he finally said and removed himself from her. He had remained inside of her for some time. Probably because he did not think he would ever experience it again.

"Do you think he would do that?" she asked, taking a thick wool blanket and covering herself with it.

"He might," the Hound replied. He went away a moment and returned with her clothing. He tossed it to her with a short order to dress.

"You might have told me that before," Sansa said, fear nestling in her stomach.

"Unless you give him a reason to suspect otherwise he will not," he replied and watched her dress. Her hands trembled as she slid the dress back on and tightened the belt around her waist. She winced from the pain but did her best not to let him see. After dressing she walked past him, her chin raised slightly too high, and moved for the door. She felt him following her, but he remained by the fire place as she made to leave.

"I trust you will be discreet," she said with the air and confidence of a woman not in her situation. The Hound gave her a cool smile.

"Or lose my head," he answered and she moved to open the door. "Oh, and little bird?" she paused with her hand on the handle. "When the king fucks you, I trust you will be thinking of me."

Her face burned the same temperature of the fire that had burned his face. She gave him a small curt nod and his little smirk increased.

"Good night, little bird. Tonight you sang me the most beautiful song I ever did hear," he told her and she swung the door shut hard. The next day in court, when the council announced that King Joffrey had decided to break off the engagement with Sansa she felt the color drain from her face. Joffrey made some off color remark about a "traitor's cunt" and the court erupted with laughter at his whit, but no one's laugher was louder than the Hound's. When she turned her emerald eyes up at him his own steel eyes on hers, twinkling and smiling.

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A/N: Please let me know what you think! This is my first Game of Thrones fanfiction and I am a little nervous. I hope that I kept them both in character and that they are believable. Let me know what you think please!


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: So, this fic will be focused mainly on the books, but some aspects of the show will be brought in. Just little things that will make the story flow a little bit better. I kind of combined the scene from the book and the scene from the movie of the bread riots for example, but it is still more book than TV show.I will make sure to make a note at the begining of the chapter when I am replacing a part of the book with a part of the show, (for example again I am going to use the part of the show when Sansa get's her period and the Hound is the one that tells the queen, instead of Sansa trying to burn it all). Hope that makes sense!  
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**I hope you guys like it and I did my best to keep everyone in character. Let me know what you think!  
**

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_**Sansa**_

Sansa had fled the throne room drowning in humiliation. She wept as the memories of the Hound's laughter continued to play over and over again in her head. The laughter of the court she could handle, the sneer from Joffrey she could withstand, but the dog's laughter… it was too humiliating. How foolish she must look now. She had taken initiative for the first time in her life, took a risk as Arya was always doing, and it was all for naught. It ended as she had always thought such actions would, blowing up in her face.

Her maids tried to comfort her and tell her everything would be alright, that Joffrey might even change her mind but she ignored them. They were fools if they truly thought her tears were from loosing Joffrey. That was all that made this situation bearable. What would happen to her now was still left a question, but at least she would not be sent to Joffrey's bed. Who knows what type of terrible things he would do to her behind closed doors.

The next few days seemed to pass in an endless blur. She responded to conversation but scarcely knew what was being said or what her sounds her own lips were forming. She was given no audience with the queen, Joffrey sent no one to beat her, and by the grace of the Gods, the old and the new, she did not see the Hound once. She had heard him spoken of in passing. The Hound did this, Joffrey made the Hound do this, and each time she did she was once again overcome with humiliation.

Until this point in her life Sansa had always believed that humiliation and shame were the same emotion. She now knew that this was not so. She felt no shame for having done what she did, but she felt humiliation all the same. It was a complicated feeling, but she decided to accept it rather than understand it.

When Myrcella was sent off to her future husband, and they were to walk through the streets to see her off, Sansa made sure her eyes never landed on the Hound. He rode to Joffrey's right and but he was easily seen over the King's head, and so she had to make a conscience effort to keep her eyes off of him. She gazed over the faces of the people instead. She saw anger, hatred, desperation, and devastation written all over their haggard, gaunt faces.

When the taunts started she felt her stomach sink to her toes and she looked toward the Hound against her will. It was an instinct that she could not overcome. He seemed anxious as well and his eyes scanned over the crowed. Slowly his hand moved to the pommel of his sword. Despite the feeling of foreboding around her she remembered the feel of those hands on her. She looked away from him and back to the crowed. She could see people staring at Joffrey, but she always felt eyes on her. Eyes filled with hate and malice. It sent a chill of terror through her and she wished the Hound were to her right instead of Joffrey. He would keep her safe if he were. That was something of which she was sure.

When the cow pie landed on the side of his face Sansa knew immediately that there was no good way out of this. Joffrey began to scream, Tyrion the Imp began to shout, the Hound was getting off of his horse and heading toward the crowed. Her horse reared and she fell to the ground. Joffrey and his men galloped off to safety, knights began cutting people open, the Hound started to slice into people like butter. She cried out, choking on her voice. Men began to descend on her, yelling and shouting , yanking and pulling. She tried to fight them off but she could not. She heard the sound of fabric ripping and knew it was the skirts of her dress. She cried out again but this time the choke cut off in her throat.

The point of a sword exploded through a pants forehead. Another man's head went rolling away and next a man's arm was separated from the rest of his body. She did not need to look up to know who it was. She reached up on instinct, searching for him in earnest. His hands touched her waist and he lifted her up like a sack of feathers. Her arms moved to wrap around his neck, hoping to cling to him for safety, but she was pushed upward instead. She was back on her house now and soon the Hound followed. He pushed her back so he could take the spot on the saddle in front of her to better maneuver through the crowed.

She wrapped her arms around his middle and pressed herself to him tightly. People reached for them but the Hound cut through them back to the castle. She could hear him rasping heavily, could see sweat coating the back of his neck. His chest heaved under his leather and steal. _So he is a man_, she thought as she watched a bead of sweat drip beneath his armor and out of sight. When they were let back into the gates Sansa could still hardly breathe. She did not want to let go of the Hound. She pressed her nose to the center of his back, squeezing him hard. Two knights were needed to pull her away from him.

"The little bird is bleeding," she heard him rasp. "Bring her back to her cage."

"Well done, Clegane," Tyrion Lannister commended him in his normal condescending way. She looked up at the Hound through tears as maids came to her and lifted her to her feet.

"I didn't do it for you," she heard the Hound reply. Her lower lip trembled and she looked away from him. "Why was she even there? She's no longer the King's plaything…"

His voice faded away as she was lead away but she found her chest tighten as she heard the words. She did not allow herself to think that he cared for her or her safety, and instead told herself that it was only because she still had some value. The Hound would do anything that would benefit Joffrey. He was no doubt angry that he had had to risk his own life in the pursuit of saving hers. But still, the angry and indignation in his voice gave her a weak warmth in the bottom of her stomach.

Sansa's bruises and cuts were seen to by her needs and she was placed into a hot bath. The hot water was soothing and Sansa sent her maids away. She could not stand their questions and attempts at soothing her. Silence was what she wanted and she ordered them all out. The looks on the men's face that had attacked her continued to make their way to the forefront of her mind, but soon the anxiety and fear that had winded its way around her heart and stomach like a snake loosened. The water was cold when her hand maiden's returned, and as Sansa listened to the door open she kept her eyes closed.

"I would like to go to sleep directly," she told them as they entered the room. Her head rested on the back of the brass bath basin and her face was angled up toward the ceiling.

"Shame, I could think of a fair better idea than sleep," he said and Sansa lurched. Her eyes popped open and she saw him standing there in his armor, his sword at his side, his hands coated with drying blood. Cold water sloshed from side to side in the tub, spilling over the edge. Her arms moved to cover herself but she knew that from the time between the door opening and him speaking he had plenty of time to appraise her openly. Still, he looked at her with his wide white eyes, dark with desire and the near crazed ferocity of a man who had just exited battle. His eyes lowered to her body, raking over her slowly, before looking back at her, a little half s mile settling on his mangled lips.

"They say the city is a fire," he told her.

"You should not be here, ser," she tried to tell him so with confidence and authority, but she knew by the look on his face that he had heard the shake of her voice. She was unsure if she was imagining it or not, but she thought she saw the muscles move on the burnt side of his face as he smiled. _It is just the play of the lights, _she told herself, _he still has flesh, as burnt as it may be. _

"Relax girl," he rasped and sat down on one of her maid's chair on the far side of the room. His hunched forehead, his back bent. "I would hardly think a girl who was nearly raped would like to be bedded so soon after, no matter how strong my charm and good looks."

"This is improper, ser, I would ask –"

"Like you asked me to fuck you?" he cut her off. "I have seen you before."

"In the dark," Sansa murmured stupidly. He grinned.

"I came for a better view."

"You say you respect the trauma I have gone through. Why must you taunt me?" she asked, tears brimming her eyes.

"I did not come to taunt you, little bird," he said softly.

"Then why have you come? To point out how my plan has backfired? How I ruined myself to no purpose?"

"Ah, you bring it up not me," he rasped. "And please, I was present at the ruining. I believe I deserve some of the credit."

"Is my suffering funny to you?" she snapped and his face darkened.

"If it were, do you not think I would have let the crowed have you? Let them have the honey I have tasted?"

Sansa brought her knees up to her chest and narrowed her eyes. No words came to her lips though and she merely stared at him.

"I want a song," he told her and looked down to his sword. He unsheathed it and rested it on his knee. She could see the dark stain of blood on the edge. She wondered if any of the blood belonged to the men attacking her.

"Florian and Jonquil?"

"How about Ser Dontos and Sansa?" he asked, his eyes moving to meet hers. She felt the color drain from her cheeks and she pressed her back against the tub. "I want to know how it ends."

"Ser Dontos is a fool," Sansa said, seeing no sense in denying the truth to the Hound. He would not like to be lied to. He said nothing and looking back at the blade.

"The king is angry with me," he told her but she did not know why. She began to shiver in the cold water but could not move or reveal herself to him. "I should have been protecting him, he says, not you."

He pointed the blade at her lazily.

"He is right," she replied and he laughed bitterly, his tongue pressed to the back of his teeth.

"He'll be pleased with me again soon enough," he rasped and leaned back. "And when he offers the Hound a treat for being a good dog I know what I will ask for."

He stood and as he did he slowly brought the blade of his sword up, pointing the bloody blade at her.

"You."

"He won't-"

"Won't he?" the Hound asked. "What are you now but a traitor's sister? The boy hates you you know. He wants to fuck you, it's true, but he hates you. His mother and the imp are behind the broken engagement, it was not the King's doing."

He looked at her, his eyes shining in the torch light. She watched him glance toward the flamed for only a moment before his eyes found her again, but in that moment she saw fear, anger, and pain.

"I have my prize, the boy has his revenge," his voice was quiet. "Lady Sansa, fucked by a dog."

"Why are you doing this?" Sansa asked him.

"You should be glad," he said and moved toward the door. "I will keep you safe. All I want is what's between your legs and hanging from your chest."

"The queen won't allow me ruined!" she called as he opened the door. The Hound glanced at her one last time.

"Little, little bird, you are already ruined."

Sansa watched him leave, heard the door slam shut and stared after him. Then, slowly, she lowered herself under the water, praying the cold water would wake her from this terrible, terrible nightmare.

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**A/N: Please, please, please review! **

**Thanks to everyone who took the time to review. You are the best! **


	3. Chapter 3

_**Sansa **_

When news of Lord Renly's death reached King's Landing Joffrey ordered a large celebration. Lord Hand Tyrion Lannister did his best to talk to the wild King out of this plan and Sansa was sure that a lot was going on behind the scenes to try and persuade him otherwise that she could not see. She even overheard the Queen Regent trying to speak with Joffrey as she was taking a walk around the castle. Queen Cersei's words had been cut off with the undeniable sound of slapping skin. Joffrey whispered harshly and there was a slamming door. Moments later Joffrey came storming around the corner, the Hound close behind, his armor clanking with each step.

She moved away, pressing herself against the wall to let them pass. Joffrey snarled at her, but by the grace of the Gods, old and new, he did not stop. Once Joffrey was passed she looked to the Hound, her cheeks turning red as she did. He did not look at her as he past and kept his eyes straight ahead. She stared after him, her eyes on his back. She wondered if Joffrey would truly give her to the Hound. Perhaps a few months ago she would not have been so skeptical. When the Hound was repulsive and terrifying to her she would have had no problem believing Joffrey would give her to him to be raped. But now, with her feelings for him slightly changed she was not so sure. It would all depend it seemed, on Joffrey's belief in how she viewed the dog. The more abhorrent it would seem to Sansa, the more likely it was to happen.

Sansa chewed on her bottom lip a moment before continuing on through the castle corridors. The Queen had given her leave to move about the castle at will and she took advantage of the permission most often at night, when the halls were quiet and she could not sleep. Every hall she entered she would touch the walls, wondering if her father had been in this room. Her fingers smoothed over the hard stone, the cold seeping into her fingertips. She pressed her cheek against the cold stone, letting out a slow, shaky breath. It was soothing, calming, relaxing. Her eyes fluttered closed and she pressed herself against the cold stone. She reached out and felt the warmth of the stone warmed by a nearby torch. She found herself enjoying the cool more. _I may look like a Tully, _she thought to herself, _but I am still a Stark. _She felt closer to her father in that brief moment.

"What are you doing out at this hour bitch?"

Sansa turned, ripping herself away from the cool stone to see who was standing behind her. Ser Meryn stood there, a twisted grin on his face. Sansa pressed her back against the wall and swallowed hard, glancing up and down the hall. She prayed for the Hound to reappear, but she knew he would not. Wherever Joffrey had gone the Hound would be as well, far away and unable to protect her.

"The Queen… she told me I could –"

"It's the King's word that matters," he interrupted her. "He gave me no such order."

"Then please, ser, I will return to my rooms –"

"We will see what the King hopes to do with you," he said and was on her in a moment, placing her wrist in a painful vice. She cried out in pain as she was dragged through the halls, struggling to get free of him. As they passed the Queen's rooms she called out, desperate for her protection. The Queen was conniving, cunning, and had the capability of great cruelty, but she was not so evil as to simply enjoy someone being beaten for no purpose. As long as Sansa played the part requested from her the Queen would do no harm herself. She was not so ignorant as to believe Sansa loved any of them any longer, and not so unhinged as to believe that she should.

But the Queen did not come. She must not have heard, or was too angry to care. She was dragged up a winding staircase. If it were not for the punishing grip Ser Meryn had on her she would have fallen down the winding steps. When they arrived outside the King's chambers the Hound was standing outside. He glanced toward them as he saw them approach, and when his eyes found Sansa's red, tear stained face he straightened and positioned himself in front of the King's chambers.

"The King does not want to be disturbed," the Hound bit out at Ser Meryn. Sansa felt some hope swell in her chest.

"I found this one wandering around the castle," Meryn said, bringing up Sansa's wrist to show him.

"As did the King and he passed her without incident. Do you think I am going to disturb the King to tell him what he already knows?" he asked incredulously. "Let the girl go."

"The girl was trying to escape!" Meryn yelled and Sansa shook her head, trying to keep her voice quiet and her tears at bay so Joffrey would not hear within and come out to see what was going on.

"I wasn't! I swear ser, I wasn't!"

She saw the Hound bristle at the title but looked back to Ser Meryn.

"Let the girl go, Trant," the Hound rasped and leaned back against the King's door. Meryn blustered.

"But she –"

"Is a little girl," the Hound cut him off.

_A little girl you have brought to bed, and would do so again by your own admission, _Sansa thought.

"Let her go."

Meryn let go of her fuming. Sansa gently rubbed her wrist and stepped away from Meryn, stumbling backward toward the Hound. He steadied her, placing his gloved hands on her arms and kept her at arm's length. Her back was to him, for she did not want to take her eyes away from Ser Meryn until he was out of sight. She listened as his armor rattled with each step down the stairs and only turned to face the Hound once she could no longer hear him.

"Thank you," she said softly, making sure to leave off the 'Ser' this time.

"Ever since that fool imp gave the boy some whores for his name day he's been doing foul things to maids. I can't imagine what he would do to you," he replied, looking her up and down from head to toe slowly. "He'd probably use his sword on you."

Sansa shivered.

"Well… thank you for making sure that didn't happen," she said and bit her bottom lip. When all he did was stare back at her she turned and began walking away. She just got to the top of the stairs, just a few feet away, when she paused and turned around. "It would be polite to say 'You're Welcome.' It's the proper way of replying to a thank you."

"I will give a proper welcome when you give me a proper thank you," he rasped and she colored.

"I thanked you politely and cordially, ser, if that is not the proper way than I –"

"How would Jonquil thank Florien, I wonder," he mused. "Calm yourself little bird I do not demand a kiss. I only want to remind you what I am. If you do not wish to thank me as a heroine does her hero, than cease pretending I am one."

Sansa was silent, unsure what to say. Her mouth set into a hard straight line as she held eye contact with him. She felt a surge of defiant anger course through her and her feet began to move toward him. His face and eyes gave absolutely no sign of what he was thinking, but when she came before him and placed her hands on his shoulders he tensed underneath her touch. She lifted herself up onto the tip of her toes and pulled him down the rest of the way. She placed her lips to his cheek gently in a chaste and gentle kiss. Her body trembled slightly, but she reminded herself she had let him inside of her body just weeks ago. When she took her lips away from his cheek she stared him right in the eye, his face still hunched toward her.

"I would have my welcome now," she said firmly and he gave her a little half smile.

"You are welcome, Lady Sansa," he rasped and she turned to leave. "But I think it telling, which side of my face you chose to kiss."

She did not turn back to face him and instead went on her way, her face reddened with anger. Why he had to make things so difficult she could not say. He was infuriatingly difficult. He made her feel guilty for not gracing him with a kiss, as a lady was supposed to do her shining knight, and then made her feel guilty when she did. And for not choosing to kiss the scar on his face? Parts of it were open and weeping. Though perhaps not weeping exactly. The skin beneath the charred flesh was wet and raw and it seemed to Sansa that it must be painful. When she had touched his cheek the other night he had hissed in a breath. The skin that still contained nerve endings was bare and vulnerable. Why would he want that touched?

She shook her head and got into her rooms, passing her maids and going directly into her bedroom. She shut the door behind her and sighed. He was a cruel man with little feeling. He shamed her into giving him a kiss, though it was to his cheek and no more than was expected of a lady for her chivalrous knight. He had taken her virginity, though she had asked him of that as well. But he had openly admitted he would ask for her as a boon and what good knight, good man for that matter, would do such a thing? She had no doubt he wanted her for sexual purposes. His claim to keep her safe was just a pretense.

Only an hour before the prospect of being given the Hound had not been pleasing, but it had not been repulsive either. It had just become so again and suddenly it seemed like a very real possibility. He was a mean, cruel, drunk of a man who would never care for anything other than killing, drinking, and whoring and he meant to have her as his own personal whore. He might wish to keep her unharmed, but only for his own personal desires.

She threw herself down on her bed, pressed her face into her pillow, and screamed.

_**Sandor**_

The skin on his cheek tingled where his little bird had pressed her lips. The cool, soft brushing of her tender lips burned his skin and it had his chest constricting and his stomach twisted in an uncomfortable bundle of nerves and desire. When she had walked toward her he felt his heartbeat rise and when her hands went to his shoulders and gently pulled him down his brain went blank. His eyes were on her beautiful, perfect face, her sparking blue eyes and stunning red hair. Her beauty rocked him and for the smallest of moments he could forget who he was, what he was, and the state of the left side of his face. But when he saw her face tilt to the side, moving away from the thick, red and black scar tissue that disfigured his flesh, he could not help but be reminded.

Her lips were hot and cold at once, freezing and burning him to the bone. His jaw tingled, the hair on the back of his neck rose, and his loins tightened with desire. Such beautiful innocence should have been disgusting to him, it normally was, and most simpering little ladies at court never knew that he reviled them as much as they reviled him, but somehow Sansa was different.

_His little bird_ was how he thought of her in his head. Not a little bird, not the little bird, _his _little bird. Until the breaking of Joffrey's engagement to her he had thought it impossible to ever possess the innocent creature he had watched beaten, degraded, and taunted. The night she had come to him to steal her virginity from Joffrey had been heavenly, but he had been far too drunk to remember it all properly. Though she might not have known any better, his hands had fumbled, his movements were sloppy, he acted on his basest instincts and when he awoke the next morning, with only parts of it in his memory he had cursed himself.

After he had done what he could in the city, avoiding the greater parts of the fires that had been lit, he started to drink again. But this time he stopped and found himself marching to his little bird's room. Her maids he found with out, but one glare from him and they scattered. That had angered him. Any man could barge into her room and have their way with her if they wished, and no maid would say a word to raise an alarm. He doubted Joffrey would even punish them.

But the moment he opened the door and saw her in the bath basin, her white, naked body stretched out under the bath water, her red hair wet and draped over the back of the rub, he had let out a deep, quiet breath. Everything in him demanded that he go to her, rip her soft body out of the water, drag her into her room and ravish her on her bed. He wanted to feel her softness again, smell the sweet smell of her hair, hear her little moans.

He felt his loins tightened, his breathing quicken. He lifted a heavy boot and took a step toward her, his plan made up, his decision made. She had given herself to him once. She was no maiden any longer. She had no claim to virtue. But when she spoke, her soft voice, a voice he so desperately wanted to hear singing for him, meeting his ears he froze. He remembered the fear in her face as the men had reached for her, the sound of that voice as she called out for help. It stopped him in his tracks.

He had made his decision up then. He would have her. He would just need to be patient, be a good dog, and he'd have his bone. He told himself this as he watched her disappear down the staircase. As his cock strained against his breeches and his thighs burned with desire he assured himself that someday, somehow, she would be his. The thought got him through the last few hours of his watch outside the King's door and when he finally returned to his rooms, he fell into bed, lying down on the spot he had set Sansa down weeks before, a flagon of wine in his hand. As he searched for the bottom of that flagon he fell asleep, images of blue eyes and red hair swirling in his head.

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A/N: Thank you all so much for the reviews! They are amazing and make me want to write more!

So, I just want to say as I continue this story, that my interpretation of Sandor Clegane is that while I believe he cares for Sansa and does not wish to see her hurt or hurt her himself, I do not think he is a righteous or particularly moral man. Just a warning.

Thanks again everyone! Enjoy and please review!


	4. Chapter 4

_**Sandor **_

He could feel her eyes on him as he swung his sword, the power of his arm causing the blade to split the knight's shield in two. Wood splintered everywhere, coming up and clanking against his dog shaped helm. A cry erupted from the audience. Joffrey was laughing and clapping as he raised his sword again, pounding away at the knight before him. None of that mattered to him though. He did not even care when the knight cried out that he yielded. After all Joffrey had said that the only way a knight, or competitor in Sandor's case, could loose was to die or fall unconscious. His last three competitors had fallen down, feigning unconsciousness.

Every time one of his foes fell he would turn to bow to the king, and on his short walk over to his corner, where he had a stone to sharpen his blade (the King ordered live blades) and a flagon of wine (Sandor had dumped out all the water that had been given him and demanded wine in its place) he would look toward the Hand's seat. Since the ending of their engagement, Sansa had been seated with the imp at every gathering, celebration, or hearing. She would nod her head curtly, but never once did she smile. Still, the small, curt, polite nod felt to Sandor as if she were tying her favors around his arm for all to see. He wondered as he smacked the flat of his blade against the staggering knight's helm what she was thinking of him. Was she looking at him in awe, or disgust? Was he a bully or a hero? A disgusting bully no doubt, but it was easy to pretend he saw awe and respect in those blue eyes.

The knight finally seemed to understand he was beaten, that Sandor was merely smacking him around until he would fall unconscious, or feign it, and fell to the ground. It was clear to all but the king that he was faking. The way his arms landed as he fell, protecting his head from any other blows, made it clear he was aware of his surroundings. Still Sandor backed off, lowering his blade and backing away. He glanced to the king and waited to be declared the victor. For a moment he was afraid the king would realize the knights was faking and order his death, but he congratulated Sandor instead and sent him to his corner. The knight was lifted up by his squire and staggered off.

Sandor glanced toward his little bird again and she nodded. He looked away immediately and took a drink of wine. He spit onto the ground when it was announced he need only win one more fight and he would be the champion of the day. It was only because he had been specifically ordered by the king that he had agreed to be a part of the mini tournament. Why the king wanted to see his knights fight to the death in the middle of a war no one knew, but even the queen could not convince him otherwise. Sandor looked up to see who it was he needed to smack around to end this hellish day.

When he saw Ser Dontos being pushed into the center of the arena Sandor spit into the ground again and shook his head. Some in the crowed began to laugh, some gasped in horror and others tittered and made their bets about how long it would take for the vicious Hound to butcher the fat fool. The former knight looked like he was about to wet himself as he stared at Sandor.

Sandor glanced over the crowd in disgust, but he paused at his little bird. The distress on her face was obvious and he saw the imp place a hand on her wrist to calm her and remind her where she was. Sandor looked away, trying to shake off the little bit of anger he was feeling. She would no doubt blame him for everything he was about to do to the old fool. In her eyes he would be as guilty as the king who forced them to fight.

"I'd sooner fight a little girl!" Sandor found himself calling out. "This is no fight."

"No!" The king agreed. "But it's _funny._"

The king laughed and Sandor stood, running his tongue around his teeth, pausing to play with the lumpy skin on the inside of his left cheek. He left his helm on his seat. He would certainly not be needing it. Ser Dontos dropped the sword that was put in his hand and scrambled to pick it up. Sandor waited but the king screamed for him to begin. Still he waited and once the sword was firmly in the fool knight's hand he swatted at him. The sword went flying once again and the crowd laughed nervously.

"Pick it up," Sandor grunted pointing at the fallen blade with the point of his own sword. Dontos could only balk at him. "Pick it up!"

Sandor slid his boot underneath the hilt and flicked it toward him. Dontos picked it up in his sweaty hands. Sandor waited and the fool came toward him, swinging blindly. Sandor side stepped him, waited for him to pass by, and hit him square in the back with the butt of his sword. Dontos went sprawling out on the hard ground.

"Stay down," Sandor spoke for only Dontos to hear, but he scrambled to his feet. "Fool."

"I must fight," Dontos panted. "For my lady."

Sandor squinted.

"Fight! Fight! Kill him dog!" the king screamed from his raised seats. Sandor ignored him.

"Your lady?" he laughed and followed Dontos' eyes to Sansa. Sandor felt his anger flare. He lashed out, smacking Dontos on the side of his face with the flat of the blade. His soft skin split open from the force and he staggered back. The fool ran toward him yelling but once again Sandor stepped out of the way, swinging his blade down in the process and smacking the back of his meaty legs. It was a punishing blow, but would not cause any lasting damage. That his little bird would never forgive him for. She thought to protect the weak even when they were too foolish to protect themselves. Dontos fell to the ground, grabbing his calf and screaming.

"Stay down, fool," he told him again but he tried to climb to his feet again. Sandor shook his head and raised his boot. He pushed his boot down on his rump, sending the fool sprawling out on the dust once again. The more mean-spirited in the crowd laughed. "You only humiliate yourself further."

"I am not a craven," Dontos yelled as he scrambling to his feet.

"Go on dog, kill him! Are you watching Sansa! Watch my dog kill your fool!" the king shouted. Sandor glanced toward Sansa and could see tears in her eyes. Surely she could see what little choice her shining knight was leaving him?

"Come at me again, fool, and I will slice your fat belly open and spill your guts all over the floor," he warned but the fool would not relent. He would rather die than look like a fool in front of '_his lady'_. Perhaps if he had this determination when he still a squire he would still be a knight. The fool's words heated Sandor's hatred but still he did not kill him. Instead he raised his sword, leaving his body dangerously exposed, and brought his pommel down hard on the top of Dontos' head. The sound made a sickening crack as Sandor's fist landed on his bare skull. Dontos hit the ground with a loud thud, but Sandor could see his chest rising and falling.

"You should have killed him dog!" Joffrey called in disappointment.

"Dog's only scratch at flees, your grace," he called and Joffrey seemed to find that amusing. The fat fool was dragged away and Sandor went back to his flagon of wine only to find it empty. He threw it at the face of the boy squiring for him and barked that it be refilled. The king was already taking his leave and spectators were filing out. There would be no celebratory drink for him, now warm slaps on the shoulders or shaking of hands. No one wanted to go near the Hound. He was no knight and therefore earned little respect from King Joffrey's court. It soured his mood and he sucked down another flagon of wine until he was in a warm, comfortable stupor.

The small training field used for the championship was empty by now, except for the boy ordered to squire for him. He stood anxiously by, waiting. When Sandor stood he stumbled backward and fell over onto his bottom. He looked up fearfully and scrambled away, but Sandor only shook his head and sneered.

"And you want to be a knight," he spat and left the field. He walked through the streets, seas of people parting for him as he did. No one was fool enough to challenge the dog, even after he had slaughtered dozens of them during the riots. He found himself walking in to one of the cheaper brothels in flea bottom. None of the better brothels would serve him no matter how much coin he could offer them.

The 'madam' of the brothel was actually a man, an old sailor, who would collect orphans and runaways from the street, and offer them bed and food if they worked for him. He greeted Sandor warmly, even as the giant man swayed on his feet and reached out to steady himself with a chair. He silently mused he had drank the last flagon far too fast.

"I bet a man like you wants a young girl, hmm? Hattie! Come here!"

Sandor shook his head as he saw the blurry face and dark hair come toward him.

"I want a red head," Sandor said and shoved the girl away. "A red head and wine."

He moved to one of the empty rooms and peeled off his armor, laying his sword up against the wall. The girl seemed to float in bringing a flagon of wine toward him. He took it from her but did not drink it. Instead he wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her close. Seated his head came up to her chest and he pressed his cheek to her swollen breasts.

"Oh, little bird," he breathed and took a strand of long red hair between his fingers. He felt her hands go into his hair, but she gasped and the hands disappeared when they touched his scars. Still, he was too drunk to care. His little bird touched his shoulders instead, where his tunic still lay. He looked up toward her but her face swam before his eyes. His palms touched the side of her face and pulled her closer, seeking the softness of her lips. She tried to pull away but he was too strong. His lips pressed to hers in a heavenly embrace but he cried out when he felt her bite down on his lip. As she reeled away from him she slapped him on the face hard.

"He said I didn't need to kiss you," she said and Sandor felt rage enflame in his chest. He wanted to strike her, to punish her for her words, but he could not hurt his little bird. Not when she had no one else to show her kindness. He grabbed her and tossed her on the bed, pressing her down on her stomach. She offered no more resistance now that she did not have to look at him. He slid inside of her, groaning deeply as he did, wishing he could press his lips to hers, feel her gentle fingers on his face. Would he ever know what it was like to have his face caressed by a loving hand? It seemed unlikely, but the little amount of joy he felt at imagining it, imagining the hand belonged to his bird, was a slight relief. When he was spent he lay down next to her, stroking her back gently.

"Sansa," he breathed, rubbing little circles on her bare skin with his finger tips.

"That's a gold dragon," the girl said rolling away. Sandor felt any drunken joy remaining in his body drain from his body. "On account of your face."

Sandor nodded and reached into his breeches. He tossed a coin at her and she pulled her robe over her shoulders. She left him to put his armor back on. He left the brothel, the standard feeling of dejection, desolation and melancholy settling itself back over him as the haze of wine fled. He spotted his little bird, the real little bird, as he reentered the castle grounds. She was on her way to the godswood and even as she looked over her shoulder she did not see him. He wanted to follow her, to scare Ser Dontos away from her once and for all, but he stopped himself. That would only end badly. He find even end up murdering the fool. Instead he returned to his rooms, fell down on the bed, and imagined his little bird lying down beside him.

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A/N: Nervous about this one! I get anxious going into Sandor's head because he is such a great character and I don't want to screw it up. Let me know what you think please!

I also fixed the eye color mistake in the last chapter. I always mess up eye color, so I will try to be more careful next time.

Thanks to everyone who has reviewed and favorited!

Happy reading!


	5. Chapter 5

_**Sansa**_

Sansa's dreams were becoming impossible to bear. Prior to the tournament her dreams consisted mainly of the mob attack, only the Hound was not there to rescue her. She was gutted, raped, and left to die in the street. Sometimes the Hound would come back for her, though those dreams were much more rare, but no less horrifying. She looked on him as her hero, her savior, but by saving her from the crowd he stood took her for himself. She would awake in cold sweats, her body trembling, and her skin deathly pale.

It had become so bad that she would wake her maids with her crying and moaning. In the beginning they had tried to be kind, and understanding, but as the dreams grew worse and more frequent, their understanding began to fade. They had tried to get her sleeping draughts, more for themselves than for Sansa's own peace of mind, but the Queen ordered nothing be given to her, should she attempt to kill herself and steal her worth from the king. Sansa felt no need to point out she hadn't the strength for suicide, no matter how frightened of something she might be. She tried to tell herself she was too strong to give in and attempt to end her miserable life, that she was a fighter like Arya, but deep down she knew the truth. She was too much of a coward.

But recently, she had watched the Hound win the tournament with such little trouble, there was a third element to her dreams. Dontos was trying to get her from the city when the mob came upon them. Dontos fought them back gallantly. In her dream his valiant efforts were not as strange and unbelievable as they would have been in real life. She looked at him with awe and admiration as he cut through her attackers.

It was when the Hound came upon them that Dontos' courage failed him. He was always covered with grit, sweat and blood, his sword in his hand, poised to kill and slick with the life's blood of his victims. The Hound loomed over them, his strength, his size, too much for Dontos to handle. In some dreams Dontos turned and fled, in others he fell to his knees and yielded and in others he would try and fight, but they all ended the same.

In the dreams in which Dontos stayed the Hound would gut him with a vicious thrust of his sword, his face snarling like a dog's. Instead of raising his sword to knock the fool unconscious as he had in the tournament, the Hound would raise his blade and sink it into his soft flesh, yanking it to the side with an unforgiving jerk, spilling the putrid smelling intestines onto the ground. Sometimes she would be relieved by the Hound's presence, other times horrified, but he always stalked toward her, the human side of his face covered by hair instead of the monstrous. She could see the outline of his teeth against the sunken flesh of his mangled cheek, his eye looking just too large as his lower eyelid sunk with the weight of the scar tissue.

"How does Jonquil thank her Florian?" he would ask with a snarl.

Whether she reached out for him or tried to scurry away he would force her to the ground. She cried as he raped her amidst the smoke, dirt, and blood and he would whisper in her ear, his breath hot and wet against her cheek.

_You're mine now._

When she awoke she could still hear his deep, rasping voice against her ear, the words echoing in her brain. She replayed the words over and over in her head so often that she sometimes forgot the words had never been said to her.

_You're mine now_, she would hear him say in her head when she saw him in the halls, or in the throne room, or in the training yard. When news of her brother's victory over another Lannister army reached them and Joffrey ordered her stripped in front of the court she had looked at him, her face flushed and wet with her tears. She wanted him to go to her then. To protect her and make them stop their horrible treatment. But he remained still, looking straight ahead, his face like stone.

_You're mine now, _she heard him whisper when he finally walked toward her. In her humiliation she was wise enough to fear rape, and when Lord Tyrion ordered her covered, and the Hound approached, her dreams came flooding back. She could hear the screaming of the mob, feel their hands clawing at her form the horse, saw the Hound fighting them off and putting her back onto her horse. She felt his gentle hands on her face, his lips on hers, his tongue in her mouth. She had been watching him when Lord Tyrion ordered her covered. The moment the command left the dwarf's lips he started toward her, his step a jolt of energy as he began to move toward her.

Suddenly she had seen Dontos gutted by him, felt her body forced down to the hard unforgiving ground, and felt the pain of his violation.

_You're mine now,_ she heard when he dropped his white cloak around her shoulders. The weight had her shoulders hunching, but she pulled it around her shoulders tightly. She could feel the warmth from his body on her bare back. It comforted her, and even as Lord Tyrion came toward her to help her to her feet, she gazed up at the Hound. He did not meet her eye, instead looking to the ground beside her, his back to the King. He stood close, his body looming over her, seemingly offering her what little protection he could without being disobedient. His scar was covered by his hair, his face twisting in discomfort. Sansa could not say it was anger exactly, nor disgust, or any specific emotion, but she knew he was upset, and she knew he was upset on her account. It warmed her some.

He jerked his head to the side curtly and she looked away from him. She saw Lord Tyrion offering her his hand and she took it, thanking him softly. It took everything in her not to glance back at the Hound as she left, but she did not want anyone to think she was looking back at the king. That would be seen as a direct challenge.

A maid came to her late that evening stating that the Hound had come to request his cloak back. She still had it wrapped around her shoulders when she had come in, but she gave it up to her maid to return to the Hound. She wondered as she stepped into her bath, if he would feel her warmth in it as she had his.

She struggled to reconcile the Hound in her dreams and the Hound she knew. He had never tried to hurt her, never tried to rape her, and so she was not entirely sure why she was having those dreams. She wished more than anything to have someone interpret these dreams. It might make her own confusing feelings more clear to her.

In her most recent dream when the Hound forced her to the ground she felt a startling pain in her back. When he forced himself inside of her she felt an explosion of pain in her lower abdomen. She cried and wept and he whispered and panted. But the pain was new. Never before had it felt so vivid, so real. When she awoke with her normal cry she was covered in cold sweat, her entire body trembling. The pain remained though. She ripped the blankets off and for a horrifying moment she thought it must not have been a dream this time. The Hound must have come in the night and raped her while she slept and she only thought it a dream.

The thought passed though. No matter her dreams, the Hound would not hurt her. That she knew. He wanted her, he would kill for her, but he would not rape her. She knew it deep in her heart, rooted in her chest, and unbudging in her mind. No she knew what the blood was, where the pain had come from. She felt herself choke out a sob. Her maids did not come, assuming it was just another nightmare.

She knew that Joffrey might still wish for her in his bed to torture her now that she had flowered. She flew from her bed searching for a knife to cut out the stain. She worked in a haze trying to burn away the evidence. Perhaps, had she been thinking more clearly she might have succeeded in hiding the truth, but she was too terrified. When her maids saw the smoke they came running in but they could not stop her. She pushed them away blindly, burning anything red she could find.

"Quick, go get the guard on duty, he will stop her," one of them ordered but they all fled the room. Sansa sobbed loudly as she went back to her mattress. The hole had been completely cut out and she tried in vain to flip the mattress. Still it would not budge. She was not nearly strong enough. She cried for a maid to help her but none came. They were not loyal to her they were loyal to the Lannisters, and the queen would know of her flowering. She did not see the flames of the bloody fabric grow, the black smoke turning lighter as the flames grew. She might have lit the entire room on fire if the maids did not return with the guard. She was vaguely aware of the rattling of armor as the guard stomped out the flames with a rasping curse.

"Idiot girl," she heard as she wept, still trying to lift the mattress up. She felt warm, powerful hands on her arms hold her still and she fell back into a powerful chest. She tried to fight away, but he held her arms strong and eventually she collapsed against him. "What were you doing foolish little bird?"

She looked up over her shoulder at the Hound, gazing up into his cold eyes.

"I didn't want… I didn't know what to do," she breathed. "He can't know. Please, you must help me, ser. Don't let them find out."

He spun her around, gripping her shoulders hard and gazing at her intently. He looked to the hole in the bed, then at the black fabric. The blood was no longer intelligible under the black char. But when he looked back at her, his eyes sweeping over her night gown, he spotted the blood. His lips parted and slowly his eyes went back to hers. She felt any hope he would not go to the queen flee from her body at once. Instead she felt a cold resignation sweep over her. He was loyal to the Lannisters and would only ever go so far to protect her.

She looked down at his feet, tears dripping onto his dirty boots, leaving a dark streak of black where the dust was wiped away by her tears. She felt his hands tighten on her shoulders. She looked back up at him, their eyes locking. She could see the heat in his eyes, the desire she had seen on the night she went to him. His lips twitched, but not to smile. Her own lips parted with understanding. The message in his eyes was clear, evident to anyone who wanted to look at them. But only Sansa looked into his eyes. Her maids were to busy scrambling to clean up her mess. They were throwing open windows, hoping to clear smoke from the room and taking away curtains, sheets, and dresses to try and save them from the smoke.

Sansa's lips trembled as she looked up at him, trying to beg him silently not to go to the queen. If Joffrey was to find out, he might call her to him on the guise of wishing to bed her, and torture her in the way he had tortured those whores. They may have been rumors, but the depravity of it rang true to Sansa. But if they were to find out he might decide it a fitting punishment to reward her flowering by giving her to his dog. What would be a greater humiliation?

"Please don't," she whispered, but his eyes did not change. The message in them was clear. He released her arms and she moved to sit on the bed. He gave her one last look before turning away and leaving the room.

_You're mine now, _his eyes had spoken what his lips did not. She ignored her maids as they tried to comfort her but she sent them away. Her tears dried up as she sat on her ruined bed, waiting to hear footsteps on the stairs. The queen would send for her, she had no doubt, but she did not know what the future would hold. She could only pray that who's ever bed this new development landed her in, it would not be the king's.

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A/N: So either the next chapter or the one after that will be the battle of blackwater and then the story will stray further from canon. I am going to try and keep it as close as I can, while still in keeping with my Sansa/Sandor story. Hope that makes sense…

Thanks so much for the reviews! Keep them coming.

I think this chapter might have been a little confusing. I tried to go over it a few times. Sansa's and Sandor's feelings and where each of them thinks they stand will be addressed again in more detail.

And one note: Sansa has physically matured but had not gotten her period until this point. My sister was almost completely developed physically before she ever started bleeding, so I am kind of thinking that was how it went for Sansa. Because though she is very young I don't want the Hound to be a pedophile. (Also keep in mind medieval standards of womanhood and age appropriate intercourse)

Happy Reading!


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: This chapter might feel like I am skipping over a lot of stuff, but that is because I do not want to write down what is the same in the book. It seems unnecessary to me. After this chapter things will be a lot smoother. I promise.

There is some dialogue from both the book and the movie. None of that is mine.

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The arrangements for Sansa's marriage to whoever the king decided to give her to were delayed thanks to the news that Stannis would be arriving at the city any day. What the king had decided, to the disgust of even the Queen, who had verbally denounced the idea was demeaning to all woman kind, was that a tournament would be held, the winner's prize being Sansa. The king had overruled her, as it was not a matter of state and therefore not within the Regent's power to override. Luckily, with the walls needing to be defended, the tournament was put on hold and Sansa momentarily forgotten.

She saw less of the Hound, as most of his time was divided between protecting the king and surveying where he was most likely going to be fighting when the time came. And though she was thankful that she did not need to see or speak to him, she felt oddly alone. Her maids tried to talk to her, but of nothing of any importance. The ladies at court would have nothing to do with her out of fear of being punished or having their husbands punished by the king and she did not even have Lady to seek solace with.

She spent a lot of her time weeping, hugging her pillow close to her and burying her face in the cool fabric. When she was not crying she would try to read or drink tea like a proper lady should spend most of her time, but it never lasted long. Instead her mind drifted to the Hound, what he might be doing in that moment and if he was thinking about her as well. From the days since her flowering she was frightened of the Hound, wanted him to stay away from her, and prayed that he would not get his way. She wanted to be a knight's lady, not a dog's bitch. It did not matter if the Hound kept her safe, or protected her or cared for her. He was not good enough for her, even now.

But then something peculiar happened. She had been taking a walk around the castle grounds alone, hoping to clear her head, when she heard some soldiers discussing the Hound between training sessions. Her curiosity made her stay in her place and she listened, hoping to learn something knew about the mysterious man. What she heard instead was some admiration about the amount he could drink without falling asleep and the amusement at the amount of gold he was charged for a whore.

"It's 'is face. No woman wants to look up at that ugly mug…"

"What about that little think last night? She didn't even try to pretend she was happy about it…"

Sansa turned and resumed her walk, leaving the soldiers before they could notice her. She felt a little tightness in her chest and an ache in her stomach. It took her nearly five minutes to realize that the uncomfortable feeling that was raging inside of her was jealously. Why the thought of him taking another woman to his bed upset he she could not come to terms with, but she felt oddly betrayed. She had the ridiculous thought that he had not come to her to even try to sleep with her again. Was he no longer intent on having her for his own? Though she did not want him the thought bothered her.

She walked up to the North wall, hoping to be able to gaze out and spot the Hound among the clatter of people. She scanned the ground for yellow, hoping he was in his surcoat today, but could see nothing. Still he was not so difficult to find. He loomed over everyone else, and though he was nearly four steps down from where the imp could be seen standing, he still towered over him. Even from this distance she could see his strong arms folded over his powerful chest and could see that he was in only his mail, a jerkin over that, and thick wool hose and boots. His sword was slung over his back but the Hound looked anything but anxious as he stood there, looking out at the sea.

She watched for only a minute before turning away, trying to suppress the jealously she was feeling. It was irrational to feel this way, when she knew that if it were her choice she would not have him. When she finally got back to her family there would be nothing that would keep them together. He was the younger brother to the heir of a minor house. He was gruff, rude, and abrasive. He would offer nothing to her brother Rob that would suggest he would sanction the match, and Sansa did not find him attractive. He was nothing in comparison to Ser Loras, but still, the thought that just last night he lay with a whore sent that painful feeling of jealously coursing through her.

She lay in bed most of the day thinking about the Hound, against her own will that is. She tried to fantasize about Ser Loras coming to save her, whisking her away from the battle on his glorious white steed. She tried to imagine his perfect face, and soft lips as they came toward her in a gentle kiss, imagine what it would be like to be his bride, but it always came back to the Hound. The beautiful face of her brave shining knight turned rough and scarred, the kisses turned hard and demanding.

She thought she was dreaming when the first horn rang through the cool air alerting them that Stannis' fleet had been spotted. When the second horn rang through the air she jolted up. At that moment two maids came running into the room with a dress for her. She felt fear and anticipation grip her as she was whisked away to the red keep. She looked around for the Hound without thinking, knowing she would feel safer if she knew he was there, but instead all she saw was Ser Ilyn Pane. She jumped when she heard her name come screaming from Joffrey's lips. She spun around and too anyone else who saw, they would think she was relieved to see him. In reality, it was the guard walking behind him that brought the smile to her lips.

For a fleetingly brief moment Sansa thought that, perhaps, in this light, the way his hair fell over the left side of his face his bright yellow surcoat draped over his armor, he almost looked handsome. The thought that he was going off to fight, and perhaps die, sobered her immediately

"Your grace," she said and gave Joffrey a little curtsey.

"You king rides forth," he said, leaning back with the arrogant swagger of a boy about to play soldier. She glanced up at the Hound and said nothing. She knew that he was how a real soldier looked before battle. Stiff, stone faced, but calm and prepared. There was no bragging or show boating.

"You should see him off with a kiss," he said and unsheathed his blade. Sansa clenched her jaw as he looked at the blade. She was anxious for him to find a new bride, so he would stop targeting her for his ego stroking. "My new blade. Heart Eater I have named it. Kiss it."

She glanced up at the Hound but he would not meet her gaze. Instead he stared off over her head, his eyes fixed on the torch flame a few feet away. Slowly she lowered her face to the blade, pausing to think up a small curse, and pressed her lips to the steal. She watched him slip the blade back in its scabbard, claiming that his uncle's blood would soon coat the steal. She fought back the reproach and annoyance from her face.

"So you will slay him yourself?" she asked. For a moment, when she saw the Hound look away from the flames and toward her, a little twitch lifting up his lips, she thought she might have gone too far. But Joffrey only reacted like an offended little boy. She pressed on, feeling protected with the Hound standing there, but ceased her subtle taunting when she saw the little jerk of the Hound's head. She back peddled slightly, but felt proud when he stormed from the room in annoyance. She was lucky he had other things on his mind.

The battle was terrifying. Smoke filled the air as the bay outside the tall towers went ablaze and boats along with it. The sound of men screaming, shouting and dying filled the air. Battering rams shook the castle. Through most of the battle she stared at Ser Illyn Pane, fear numbing her body to any other sensation. The queen's words rang through her head over and over again, each time causing her anxiety to raise just another level.

It was amidst the ladies terror and the Queen's drunken stupor, that Sansa slipped from the main room they were all staying in and hurried to her rooms. She knew if she could lock her door and keep Ser Illyn out, that Stannis would not kill her. And if Joffrey won, there would be no reason for Ser Illyn to kill her. She locked the door and swung over the arm, lodging it in place securely. She let out a deep breath, feeling suddenly very much at peace. She would be safe, she would be unharmed, she would live. She said it over and over again in her head, pressing her forehead against the door in front of her.

"You shouldn't have done that little bird," a voice came from the darkness and Sansa whirled around to find it. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness and she hastily looked around the room for a torch and something to light it with. It seemed she had not thought that part through thoroughly enough. "Now no one can get in to save you."

Sansa saw him sit up on the bed, her bed, and look at her, his chin slightly raised, his eyes hooded from exhaustion and drink. She watched him reach out a gloved hand to grab the flagon by her bed and take a long swig.

"Same me from what, ser?" she asked softly, her voice trembling. He smiled, a twisted cruel smile that told anyone who saw it this man had only ever known pain.

"Me," he said and stood. She pressed her back against the back of the door and looked around, searching for a weapon, anything she could use to hit him.

"I do not need protecting from you," she said when she could find no weapon. He laughed but she went on anyway. "You protect me."

"Protect you? Am I protecting you right now girl?" he asked and he slammed a fist into the door by her head. She flinched and he held it there, looming over her. His breath reeked of alcohol and she could see the blood that covered him. Splotching his cloak, his surcoat, his _face _was blood. Blood of the men he had just killed that knight. It sent a shiver down her spine. "Tell me, what other purpose would I have here?"

"You won't hurt me," she whispered with more conviction than she felt. Inside her heart pounded, her mouth was dry, and her stomach quivered, but she raised her chin and gazed at him defiantly.

"No little bird, I won't hurt you," he breathed. She flinched as he brought up the hand not perched against the wall and bit his glove off with his teeth. Spitting it to the side he gently ran his fingertips over her cheek bone. When he spoke next his voice was quiet. "Everything's on _fire_."

"Not here," Sansa said softly and he laughed again, bitter and low in his throat.

"No, not here," he agreed. "Will you sing me a song, little bird? Sing me a song about handsome knights and the fair maiden's that love them."

"Ser please –"

"Sing!" he shouted and pounded the door near her head again.

"_Gentle Mother, font of mercy,_

_save our sons from war, we pray, _

_stay the swords and stay the arrows, _

_let them know a better day. _

_Gentle Mother, strength of women, _

_help our daughters through this fray, _

_soothe the wrath and tame the fury, _

_teach us all a kinder way."_

When she stopped the Hound was silent and his head was hunched low, nearly at level with her own. She stared at the crown of his head, watching as the hair fell, revealing the bald burnt skin of his scalp. She swallowed her and brought up a hand, reaching out to touch it. She froze when he looked up, his dark eyes pinning her in place. After a beat she reached out and touched the side of his face, the hot wetness of tears and blood meeting her fingers.

"I'm leaving," he rasped.

"Back to the battle?" she whispered.

"No, I am leaving King's Landing," he told her and she felt suddenly like she was trapped in a tomb. A cold feeling of dread fell over her and her mouth, already dry, turned yet dryer.

"Where will you go?" she asked him.

"North might be," he rasped. "Somewhere that isn't burning. I could take you with me. I could bring you home."

"We'd never get past the gates –"

"Who will stop me?" he asked. She let out a cry when she felt a knife pressed to her throat. "When I have this? Or this?"

He motioned to the sword slung over his back. The knife was slowly lowered from her throat.

"Are you scarred little bird? I could keep you safe. They're all afraid of me. No one would hurt you again, or I'd kill them."

Sansa hesitated. She could hardly believe it was true, but his words were said with conviction. She gently rubbed her thumb over his cheek, feeling the bloody tears beginning to dry.

"If you are caught they'll kill you," she whispered.

"I'm dead if I stay," he rasped. She did not know what he meant by that but she nodded slowly.

"Sandor," she said, his name funny on her lips. "Take me home."

He stepped back and ripped the cloak from his armor. He wrapped it around her shoulders and pulled up the hood to cover her face.

"Be silent and do as I tell you," he told her sternly, suddenly very sober. She nodded but said nothing and struggled to keep up with his long strides, as he spirited her away from her prison.

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A/N: Thanks to everyone who has reviewed! Means so much to me! Let me know what you think!


	7. Chapter 7

_**Sansa **_

They had been on the horse since they took it from the stables and though Sansa had always enjoyed riding, she was beginning to ache and chafe. She leaned backward into the Hound, trying to alleviate some of the pressure from her bottom and thighs but it did little good. When they had left the city had been in utter chaos and just as he had told her no one tried to stop them. The confusion was too great and with her body and face covered by his bloody white cloak no one recognized the valuable hostage that the Hound was stealing away. The stable boy who had innocently surrendered the Hound's horse with no questions asked said something to the Hound that made Sansa believe the boy thought the Hound was stealing a woman away from the city as a war prize. It made Sansa's stomach turn.

She had worn the bloody white cloak for a few miles out of the city, when they were in the most danger. She protested when the Hound slowed the horse and got onto the ground outside a little hovel. The people inside were hiding from the battle and terrified but that meant nothing to the Hound. Sansa called after him to stop when he knocked the flimsily door down with a single forceful punch of his hand. She was relieved when he came back with a brown peasant gown and a thick wool cloak.

"You are no longer Sansa Stark," he rasped as he grabbed her hips in powerful hands and took her from the horse. She gasped when he ripped the white cloak away from her and tossed it to the side. She yelped when he spun her around and ripped the lacing of her gown apart, stripping her down right there. He tossed her the peasant dress to put on and she did so quickly. When she was done, her face burning red, he cloaked her in the thick brown wool, tying the clasp around her neck protectively. He tossed her old clothing toward the gawking wide eyed family.

"Sell it," he said, ripping off his surcoat and adding it to the pile. "It'll be worth more than this stuff."

And Sansa had no doubt that was true. He may have knocked down their door and stolen the daughter's only spare dress and cloak, but he had left them with valuables they could sell to the Queen for a sack full of gold.

"But when they ask which way we went, you lie," he told them and they nodded. He spurred on the horse, first heading East. He changed his direction then, doubling back west.

"Why are we changing direction?" Sansa asked as her body heaved up and down on the horse. His armor hurt as she thudded against it, but she promised herself she would not cry out.

"Never trust anyone, little bird," he rasped, his grip on the reigns hard. "They will tell the Lannisters the truth when they come looking for us."

"Should we have given them the our clothing together? Won't they know we are together now?" she asked. She was not sure why but she thought they would be safer if the Lannisters did not know their disappearances were related. Now they would search for the pair of them. They were more distinguishable this way. But the hound did not seem to care.

"I want them to know," he replied gruffly. "I want the world to know. Now be silent."

Sansa was not sure why he wanted everyone to know, but she listened to him and fell quiet. When the sun began to rise he slowed his horse to a walk. Sometimes he would speed up to a canter, but the speed would cause Sansa's back to press against the studs in his armor and she would wince. She was sure her back was terribly bruised already the galloping the night before. Many times she thought she was going to fall, but she leaned closer to him, despite the pain, and wrapped tightened her legs around the horse. She had tried to sit side saddle when he first put her on the horse but he shook his head.

"It might hurt in a dress and small clothes, but you're less like to fall off," he told her when he forced her leg over the other side. She grimaced and squirmed in the saddle but did her best not to make a single peep. She did not want to hear the Hound's gruff response. She was not a little girl anymore. She was a woman grown. Flowered. She would act as such.

"When we are farther from the city," he said as she tried to raise her sore bottom from the hard saddle. "Then we can rest. Maybe in a night or so find an inn to sleep in. Get you a bed and a hot bath."

She nodded.

"Why aren't we going North?" she asked when she turned to see the rising sun on their backs.

"We need to be out of the way, little bird. Away from prying eyes," he told her.

"When will we turn North?"

"When I decide to," he rasped.

"When will you decide to?"

"Hush child. You test me with your prattle," he told her and she blushed.

"I am only curious," she said with some coolness in her voice.

"There will be time to talk when we are out of danger," he replied simply and she fell silent. He knew more about what they were doing than she, and she would just need to trust him for the time being. By evening she could hardly keep her seat. She was not used to riding for these long amounts of time and she squirmed endlessly. But she prided herself still. Not once did she complain. Not once did she make a sound. The Hound did though, and it made her feel better knowing he must be in pain too, because every time she would squirm against him he would let out a little grunt, a groan, or a breathy curse. She wondered why he refused to stop though if he was in as much pain as her. But then she remembered his face. He knew pain and he knew it well. It was nothing to him.

By dinner time she could take no more. They had no food, the Hound told her he would find something for them when they stopped for the night, and she was hungry, thirsty, tired, and in pain. When the Hound heard her sniffle he forced her face to the side so he could look at her. She kept her eyes closed but she felt the horse slow. When the horse stopped and he dismounted she felt his hands go to her hips and gently remove her from the animal.

"You never rode before?" the Hound asked gruffly as he put her on the ground. Sansa tried to stretch her legs but the pain was too much. Instead she sat down as he began collected firewood in his massive arms.

"Of course I have," she sniffled, wiping the coarse brown wool over her nose.

"I mean real riding," he replied when he dropped a bundle of wood onto the forest floor in front of her.

"That is for men," she replied curtly.

"Yes, knights and dogs, but not little birds," he said. Her fingers needed the sore muscles of her thighs, ignoring the worst areas where she had chafed on the saddle. "There will be more pain tomorrow, worse than today, but we must keep moving."

"How soon until we can rest?"

"We are resting now," he responded gruffly.

"You know that is not what I meant, d –"

Her words cut off in her throat when she realized in horror what she was about to say. Never had she considered referring to him in such a disrespectful way. It was just there, ready to spill from her lips. Calling him the Hound, or the King's dog, that was one thing, but using it in place of his name… she had better courtesies than that.

"Dog, you were going to say, little bird? Dog? Go on, say it. It's what I am. I know what I am. Say it, little bird, call me dog."

She could only stare at him.

"Go on, little bird, say it now. Say it. Say it. _Say it._"

"Stop it! You're frightening me!"

She yelped when he moved on her, over the unlit wood, knocking her from her seated position onto her back against the hard cold ground. His knees straddled her waist and he loomed over her, his face dangerously close to her. She tried to close her eyes and look away, her body trembling with fear, but one of his powerful calloused hands grabbed her by the chin and held her tight.

"Look at me," he rasped through gritted teeth. She refused and his finger's tightened. "Look. At. Me."

Her eyes fluttered open and she looked up at him, tears leaking out of her eyes. She suddenly felt like she had made a terrible mistake. She had left the safety of King's Landing and put herself at the mercy of this… this animal. She flinched when he raised his other hand and she thought he meant to hit her, but instead he flipped his long hair out of his face and to the side, revealing for the first time the full extent of his burns. Her eyes widened when she saw how far up his scalp it climbed, saw what was remaining of his mutilated ear.

"You should be frightened, little bird," he told her. His breath smelled like strong wine, though he had not drunk since the night before, and his body like sweat and the earth. "If you have forgotten I am not one of your little knights than please let me remind you. I am not your knight of the fucking flowers. I'm a dog. I have no honor."

"That's not true," she whispered. He paused and she felt his hand on one of her budding breasts.

"I could have you right here on the forest floor," he said softly, his finger tips circling the tip of her breast. "You are already ruined. It will make no difference the price I shall receive for you."

"The price?"

The question was cut off by the Hound's lips on hers, his tongue forcing its way into her mouth. His hand tightened on a breast and he lowered his hips to brush hers. She felt the weight of him crush her to the ground as he lowered himself onto her, but she could feel the hardness pressing against her core. She brought her hands up to push him away, but instead she grabbed onto his arms, squeezing the mail with her weak hands.

She let out a weak moan into his mouth, but he swallowed it, crushing his lips down on hers like he was dying of thirst and she was his water. His hands yanked her dress up over her hips and she realized that he was going to take her right there. It was disgustingly exciting and she felt liquid pool between her legs. His lips left hers so he could lean back and place his knees between her legs, instead of over them. As he fumbled with his breeches her eyes were on his still uncovered burns. She suddenly saw him a little eight year old boy, sobbing and convulsing on the floor after his brother had ceased grinding his face into the hot coals. She wondered if he curled into a ball, or sprawled out, if he had tried to touch the terrible flesh or avoided it. If his parents cared what their older son had done to the younger. It made her heart break. What a cold, angry man it had turned him into. She blushed and looked away as he freed himself and she was thankful he did not make her look at it.

"Will you sing me another song?" he rasped and she gasped. His fingers slipped inside of her, his dirty, calloused fingers, and curled slightly. Bolts of pleasure shot through her and she mewed softly, bucking her hips automatically. "So pretty."

His thumb touched a little part of her down there that she had discovered around her twelfth name day. She remembered touching it while bathing and feeling a sudden shock run through her. She had been so terrified by it she never touched it again. But every time his thumb moved over her it brought more pleasure and she bit down on her tongue hard to keep quiet.

_What if someone hears? _She wanted to ask. Was this what the Hound meant when he said he wanted to the world to know? Is this what they would think they were doing, what he was doing to her? It made her shudder, but she did not know if it was out of complete disgust. There was something wicked in it that tempted Sansa.

He took her hard and fast, but there was no pain this time. Her thighs were coated with an odd smelling liquid that made his entrance easy. Even the pain in her bottom and legs were momentarily forgotten. He panted against her ear for a time, kissed her lips sometimes, and kissed her neck other times. She felt his teeth on her neck and cried out, but not in pain. She convulsed around him twice before he stopped, pulling out of her and spilling his seed onto her thighs.

"Would your knight of the flowers have done that?" he rasped when they were finished. He stood, leaving her there on the forest floor, her dress bunched up around her hips, her thighs glistening with both their fluids. He fastened his breeches as he looked down at her his eyes still hot. "I am not a good man, little bird, I'm a dog. Remember that."

She nodded, pulling down her gown as he walked away. She would remember it, but if it were true, why did it feel so good?

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A/N: Please Review!


	8. Chapter 8

_**Sandor**_

Sandor gazed at her intently form across the fire, his eyes never once leaving her angelic face. She had not looked at him since he had taken her under the large oak tree and he could scarcely tell if it was anger or just girlish embarrassment. He found himself bitterly thinking it should be the latter. She had clung to him while he fucked her, letting out beautiful little notes for his ears to catch, panting and crying out in pleasure. But as he bit into the hard rabbit flesh he fought back a scowl.

He wandered if she was afraid of him now. When he heard the beginnings of the word 'dog' on her lips he had seen red. Not her too, not his little bird. Though it had been his intention, the thought of her hating him tugged at his insides uncomfortably. That was why he kept staring at her. He wanted her to look at him so he could see the look in her eyes when she did. That would be all he needed to know. But it would not make the decision he found himself faced with any easier.

If she looked at him and he saw only hatred, fear, or disgust then he could return her to her family without a thought, take the gold she was worth, and never look back. He could spend his time fucking redheaded whores until he forgot about her. But if she hated him already then refusing to return her would hardly make him less of a scoundrel in her eyes. Keeping her with him, to talk to him, and sing to him, and fuck him, it would not make him any less abominable. But he knew he could not cause her pain. He could not keep her from her family. And what would he do, find a little cabin to lock her away in, force her to play wife for the remainder of their days. Could he take the hatred he would see glistening in her eyes when he took her to bed?

And if he saw shyness, affection, or curiosity? He did not know what he would do if he saw that. Maybe jump through the flames and take her again at once. She had not put up a fight earlier, though he had expected her too. His intentions had been to frighten her, but when he heard the soft little breathy moan escape from her parted lips, and felt her small delicate fingers tighten around his arm, he had lost his way. Had she breathed out the word no, put the slightest pressure on his chest he would have backed away, he would have stopped. He had not thought it would even escalate to touching.

"You see, little bird," he would have said to her when she refused to look at his charred flesh. "You cannot even bear the sight of me."

He would have moved away and lit their fire, caught their dinner, and said nothing the rest of the night. Afterward, when he stalked back into the woods to look for some easy game or some good pieces of fire wood he wracked his memory. She had looked so terrified when he got off of her that he was unsure for a moment if she _had _told him to stop, if she _had _tried to push him away. Had he imagined the little song she was singing? The thought had made him sick, but when he remembered the juices dripping down her thighs he calmed some.

When he had returned she was clearing a little patch of dirt of rocks and twigs to lay her cloak down on. Sandor grabbed a log to use as a bench and began cooking the rabbit. Neither said a word. He had tried to avoid looking at her most of the night, but as the sun set and the air got colder he heard her shiver. He looked up at her and had not looked away since. Her pale skin glowed bright in the fire light, her auburn hair even redder in the orange glow.

"You should put on the cloak," he finally said, his raspy voice cutting through the silent night air and earning a little gasp of surprise from his little bird. She looked up at him, her wide green eyes full of confusion and fear. He clenched his jaw.

"I will get dirty," she replied and brushed at the hem of her dress.

"You'll get sick if you don't put on the damned cloak," he told her.

"I am a lady still," she replied and edged closer to the fire. "I should do what I can not to get dirty."

She looked into the flames, wrapping her arms around herself. He shook his head and looked back into the flames himself, but his eyes once again moved to her face. He was suddenly angry with her though he did not know why. He was sure if the Knight of the flowers was here she would be gazing at him, smiling and singing her pretty words for him. She might even strip her dress off and climb into his lap, but not for him, not for the dog. He ripped at what remained of his portion of the rabbit with his fingers and bit into it savagely. He sensed her glance up at him, but she once again looked back into the flames. He watched her shiver and once again moved closer.

"Stop," he rasped abruptly and she looked up.

"Stop what?" she asked softly, glancing up over the hot licking flames at him. Her green eyes were swimming with emotion, but he did not see disgust or hatred.

"No closer to the flames," he said simply. "I won't put you out if you set yourself on fire."

"Yes you would," was her simple reply and she looked back to the flames. Sandor said nothing but held the last of the rabbit meat in his fingers. He turned it over in his hands, looking at it and then back to his little bird. She did not as much as flinch when he leaned forward, holding out his hand, and extending the last of their food to her.

"Eat it," he said.

"No, ser, I already ate my share –"

"I had a bigger share," he replied, his hand still up between them.

"You are a bigger person," she replied and his hand fell a fraction of an inch.

"You are still hungry," he said simply. He knew it was true. The girl, as small as she was, was used to grander meals than this.

"You are not?"

"I'm a man. I'm always hungry," he replied and she smiled softly. She reached out and took the last of the meat from him. He watched as she daintily pulled it apart and slipped it between her pink lips. He wished he had a cloak to drape around her shoulders, since the little bird was too foolish to simply put on her own, but both his white cloak and his surcoat were miles away. He might remove his armor and give her his shirt for extra warmth, but the exercise would make him look foolish and so he remained still.

The fire was not enough to keep her warm without the cloak and he watched as her breath left her lungs in plumes. He had kept the fire small on purpose. Not only did he mislike large fires, as fire was something he knew could not be controlled, he did not want to risk detection. He had debated even lighting a fire, but he knew he could protect them against the little band of outlaws running about. It would be another day or two before anyone at King's Landing put together that they were together, and they did not even know who had won. So Sandor felt relatively safe with the small fire.

She murmured a soft goodnight as she lay down on her cloak, using the hood as a little makeshift pillow. He watched her lean in close to the fire for warmth, and every time she did her heart leapt. He envisioned a stand of hair falling too close to the flames, a piece of her dress catching a spark, and his heart was in his throat. He ground his teeth together in tense anger as he watched her. He looked around the black night beyond their camp and listened for sound but heard nothing but the sound of his little bird's chattering teeth. He sighed and stood, grabbing his sword from where it rested next to him.

She tensed when he kneeled down on her cloak and lowered himself to the ground behind her. He wrapped an arm around her slender waist and pulled her toward him, way from the dangerous flames and closer to his own safer warmth. She may have thought to fight, but his warmth seemed welcomed and her shivering stopped almost immediately. She was so small he easily blocked her from the cold, and she was safe between the warm fire and his hot body. He wished he could have removed his armor, to have her soft body against his own, but if men were to come in the night he would be at too large a disadvantage.

"I will wake you near midnight little bird, to watch while I sleep," he told her as he stared into the flames. As long as his eyes were on the flames he knew they would not jump out at him. "You can sleep in the saddle while we ride tomorrow."

"Yes, ser," she murmured, but he knew she was well on her way to sleep.

"I'm no ser," he rasped, flames glittering in his dark eyes. He might have had no love for knights, but he knew what she thought they were, what they should be. He thought of her earlier, on her back, her dress up around her waist, his seed dripping from her thighs. "No ser at all."

()

Sandor cursed when he awoke the next morning to find the fire dead and little Sansa Stark still comfortably asleep in his arms. He slid his arm out from under head, which his little bird had been using as a pillow and got to his feet. She jumped awake as her head his the ground and looked around frantically.

"You fell asleep," he said accusingly and set about destroying the evidence of their fire. She collected her cloak off the ground and jumped to the side as bits of ash and wood began flying by her feet as he kicked at the black coals.

"I was tired and you were so warm –"

"Yes, and when Joffrey's men find us I am sure they will say 'No, let's not kill the dog and take the Stark girl back to be beaten, tortured, and raped, he's so _warm_," he said cruelly. He watched her white cheeks turn pink a moment before bending down. He was a great fighter, but was never very good at covering his tracks, though he thought he had done a fairly good job with this fire. One might know a traveler had stopped here, but not that it was just the night before. In a few days, it would like they had left months ago. Once he was finished he grabbed the reigns of his horse and motioned for his bird.

"Stop pouting," he scolded as she walked toward him, pulling her cloak more tightly around her shoulders.

"I'm not pouting," she pouted and he grabbed her by the hips and gently raised her up. She winced as he did so, but not because his grip was too tight.

"Depending on how far we get today, I will try and find an inn tonight," he said and gazed up at the sky. It was already late into the morning. Perhaps if she had done as she was told, and stayed awake and roused him at sunrise, that would be more in the cards.

"My sister would be better at this kind of thing than me," she mumbled after an hour of silence on the horse.

"You are doing just fine," he told her.

"You were angry with me this morning," she reminded him.

"It is you that will suffer the most if we are overcome," he told her gravely. "No one will save you from the king's wrath now."

"You do not even know who won," she said, her voice small.

"It is better to assume the worst."

"I disagree," she said softly. "In most cases that is…"

"If your father had assumed the worst he might still be alive," Sandor said a little too sharply. He felt her tense against him but she made no reply.

"I do not want you to touch me anymore," she said after another long stretch of silence.

"Oh? Would you like to get down and walk then?" he asked her and she bristled.

"I mean like last night," she said. "No more of _that_."

"Fine then, I'll let you freeze," he replied coldly.

"I mean no… no sex," she said lamely, a blush coating her cheeks. "You mean to ransom me and I am already returning to my family damaged. I will not be made into your whore."

"You will if I want you to," his voice was rasping ice as it left his pinched lips.

"No, I won't," she replied. "You won't hurt me."

He said nothing and she spoke again, more confidently than before, hardness in her usually soft voice.

"You won't hurt me."

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	9. Chapter 9

_**Sansa**_

The Hound was silent as the grave. Even as she knelt down to take a sip of water she could feel his eyes on her, but he did not say a word. Most of the day he had ignored her, not even looking at her or glancing down at the top of her head, but right now his gaze was so hot she could feel it on her back. She did not know what the look held exactly. She thought that if she looked back to meet his eyes she might be able to guess, but she was too frightened. She had narrowed it down to two possibilities though; lust or anger. Maybe both, she thought as she sipped the cool river water from the bowl she had made with her palms.

He had nearly threatened rape on her when she refused to be his whore, but after, when she told him he would not hurt her he had fallen silent, saying absolutely nothing. It unsettled her, but it also calmed her in some ways. She was right. As long as she had the strength of will to say no he would not persist. It was when her strength faltered, and she melted into warm putty in his large hands, that she was in real danger. That had been proven last night. God forbid he was to get her pregnant. What would her mother and brother do with her then? She was angry with him as well. When he had come to her and offered to take her with him she had not thought it was because he wanted her ransom. She thought it was because he cared. It helped ease the sting she was feeling.

Though he allowed her to sit side saddle now, because they were not in as much of a hurry as they had been before, she was still having difficulty. Her thighs ached, her bottom stung, and now she had to wrap one of her arms around his middle to keep her balance. If he could feel the side of her breasts occasionally press against his side, he gave no hint of it, but every time it happened she had to look down to hide her blush.

When she spotted the stream she asked if they could stop for a drink, but he only grunted as he jumped down. She knelt beside him, and was about to take a drink when he spit into the river and grabbed her arm. He pulled her back to her feet and lifted her onto the horse.

"What is it?" she had asked but he said nothing. She scowled at him but did not try to get him to speak again. About half way up the stream she saw the littered bodies and thought she was going to throw up.

"I thought I tasted death," he grumbled to himself. It was all he said all day. Once they were safely up stream he stopped the horse again, but she refused to drink the water. The Hound rolled his eyes and went to have a drink. After watching him for a few moments she hopped down from the horse and moved beside him. He moved away before her and began waiting at the horse. That was when she felt the stare start.

_He wants me to hurry up, but he is too proud to talk to me, _Sansa thought. She decided she would make him wait. It was perhaps childish, and not at all courteous, but she felt better all the same when she stood and slowly smoothed out her dress. She avoided his eyes as he moved back to his horse, afraid of what she would find there. She tried to swing herself up on the horse without his help, but the horse was too large, and she fell backwards. She let out a little cry, but landed in strong arms and was kept from falling to the ground. He pushed her up onto the saddle wordlessly and hopped up behind her. His arms flexed around her as he gripped the reigns.

Sansa fell in and out of sleep as they road, not because she was very tired as much as she was bored. The last time her eyes fluttered open they were at a small inn. It was still light out, but the Hound rode toward it. She felt her heart leap when he jumped down and tied the reigns to a post.

"Stay right here," he grunted and walked into the inn. She looked around her nervously, feeling suddenly vulnerable without the Hound close. The Hound came back only a moment later but Sansa let out a sigh of relief. She did not like the way the stable boy was leering at her, and a few travelers were leaning up against the stable walls, glancing over at her as they spoke. She hopped down into his arms. She could not help but smile at the prospect of a hot meal and a real bed. The Hound looked at her for only a moment before looking away, his face made of stone. She stayed close to him as he untied the reigns and led the horse over to the stable. Sansa tried to hide behind him as he paid the stable boy, but the young man still got his eyes on her body, a devious twinkle in his eyes. She followed the Hound into the stalls rather than stay with the boy.

"Shh," the Hound said softly to the horse as he put him inside. He unsaddled him and brushed his coat gently. "I'll be back."

"I can do that, ser," the stable boy said. "It's my job."

He gave Sansa a stupid smile and she stepped toward the Hound.

"He'll bite your face off, boy," the Hound rasped. "Now raise your fucking eyes."

The boy's eyes left Sansa's chest and went to the Hound's face.

"Sorry ser, I didn't mean nothing by it," he hurried out.

"You best not," he growled and stepped away from his horse with one last caress. He walked up to the boy, towering over him, and ordered Sansa to step out of the stall. He followed her out right after, saying nothing to the stable boy.

"Stay away from that one," he told her when they left the stable.

"I will," Sansa promised and glanced back at the young man. He was smiling at her again. He was not unattractive, he had thick blond hair and deep brown eyes, but there was something in his smile that made her feel uncomfortable. She looked away from him when he winked. Sansa hurried her steps to keep up with the Hound's.

"Aegar!" the tavern owner said when the Hound walked in. "I was going to offer you some of my girls but I see you already got one."

"She's not my whore," he replied coldly and Sansa felt oddly guilty. It made her angry and she frowned at the back of his head.

"Oh! Wonderful! Well after you eat I will send one up for you. Only a few silvers. You'll know why when you see her," he grinned stupidly and looked at Sansa. "Two rooms then?"

"One room and no whores," he snapped angrily.

He pointed wordlessly and Sansa took a seat by the fire. A hot but watery stew was brought to them with a stale loaf of bread and wine for the Hound. He took a gulp and ripped the bread in half.

"Are you still angry with me?"

"I'm not angry," the Hound said and held the bread in the soup.

"You haven't spoken to me at all," she said and looked for a knife to cut her bread.

"I've had nothing to say," he replied.

"You made it sound like you were rescuing me when you took me from King's Landing, not stealing me," Sansa said, her mouth dry and the taste bitter. Having found no knife to cut the bread with she tried to daintily pull a few pieces off and bight into it. It was too hard to bite through and so she followed the Hound's actions and dipped it into the soup. It was easier to eat after that.

"What would you have me do? Take no money?" he asked brusquely and took another swig of wine.

"No… I thought… I thought you were changing sides," Sansa told him. He barked out a laugh.

"Go from being Joffrey's dog to your brother's? If he would even have me, which he would not. I'm my own dog now," he said.

"So you will go away afterward?" she asked him. He shot her a cold smile.

"So ready to be rid of me?"

"No!" she cried out a little too quickly and a little too fast.

"Your brother won't have me, little bird. Once I return you we will go our separate ways," he told her more gently.

"What if I make him? You could be _my_ guard," she suggested. He laughed again, loudly. She did not know if it was because what she said was so ridiculous, or if it was the amount of wine he was drinking, or both.

"You think he'd let me guard you without gelding me?"

"But he doesn't even know –"

"He doesn't have to know I've fucked you to know I _want _ to, little bird," he said. "Any man would be able to see it in my eyes."

She blushed and looked down at the stew. She could hear the wine move in the flagon as he took another swig.

"I won't do it anymore," she told him again. "You should just buy one of the whores."

She didn't want him stumbling into her bed tonight drunk. She did not trust herself to give in, and she did not trust him to have enough control to stop. Still, she did not quite like the idea of him using a whore. It put an odd taste in her mouth and a pit in her stomach.

"With that stable boy about? If I got another room he'd be in yours in half a heartbeat," he snarled. "If I can't fuck you little bird, neither can he."

"Ser? Joffrey wouldn't have been able to tell… do you think… do you think that whoever I am sent to marry will be able to tell?" she asked him quietly, as if her future husband was in the tavern and might hear. The Hound didn't seem to like the question and took another swig.

"Most men think if its tight it's virgin," he shook his head. "Others are smarter. Others have their brides examined."

Sansa felt her face burn red. When she looked up he was holding the wine flagon out to her. She took it hesitantly and brought it to her lips. She grimaced at the taste. Never had she ever had wine so thick and so strong. The Hound laughed at her face. He took the flagon back and drained it, ordering another be brought to him with cups this time.

"Do not worry little bird," he told her as he poured her a cup of wine. "You will dazzle your husband with your red hair and blue eyes."

She took a tiny sip from the wine. She jumped when the door swung open and there was a shout for the innkeeper. Sansa looked to her left and her eyes grew wide, her stomach fell to her toes, and she saw big, black spots in her eyes. The entire inn had gone quiet as the man entered, gazing around the room. Sansa hardly knew what he looked like. All she could see was the bright, gold cloak that hung from his shoulders.

"There you are dog," the gold cloak said when his eyes landed on the Hound's burnt face. The gold cloak unsheathed his sword. Sansa's eyes widened when the Hound took one last swig of wine, wiped his mouth, and stood.

"Ser Erynn," the Hound laughed. "They sent _you_ after me… alone?"

"We were looking for her," the gold cloak said. "The Queen thought the disappearances unrelated. Everyone thought you dead."

"The queen's a bloody fool then," the Hound answered.

"I am sure she would like to hear that before your execution," he snapped and looked at Sansa. "If you come with me now girl, I will support a claim that you were kidnapped by the dog. I am sure this animal has violated you in some way."

"No way she didn't like," the Hound said. Sansa was tempted to go with the Gold cloak. If they thought that she had been kidnapped she could return with no consequences. The queen and Joffrey would forgive her certainly. But the thought that Joffrey had won, that he was still the King on the Iron Throne turned her stomach.

She looked toward the Hound. Even the Hound was more gallant than Joffrey, in his own way. She did not want to leave him. Not yet. Not until she could see her mother and brothers again. She could only shake her head at the gold cloak though. She could not find her words.

"The little bird likes me better it seems," The Hound rasped and drew his sword from his back. Sansa watched in horror as the drunk Hound moved toward the terrified gold cloak. All around her there was silence and for the first time since leaving King's Landing, she began to pray.

()

A/N: Not one of my bests, but it's decent I think. I had trouble writing this chapter so please be kind.

I hope you enjoyed it and thank you so much for reviewing! I know I said I would reply to my reviews, and so far I have not, but this time I mean it for real. I want to reply to my reviews. So if you were wondering why I didn't it was basically a mixture of laziness and forgetfulness.


	10. Chapter 10

_**Sandor**_

After he had slain the gold cloak he wanted nothing more than to drag his little bird up stairs and fuck her bloody. It had been an easy fight, but the gold cloak had been persistent. Any time he killed a man his blood was up and to have his little bird so close and so available was hard to resist. But they needed to leave and she had told him she no longer wanted his intentions. True she had not truly wanted him before, but those little sounds she had made… he had allowed himself to believe she wanted him for a little while. The moment she told him he was no longer permitted to touch her that fantasy had faded to dust.

He wiped the blood of the gold cloak onto his breeches and looked toward his little bird. She was looking at him with wide eyes, but he might have believed he saw relief in her bright blue eyes. He held out his hand to her, motioning for them to go with a jerk of his head. She ran over to him, her feet moving quickly across the floor. She grabbed onto his hand and he led her from the tavern.

"Stable boy!" he yelled. "Get my saddle!"

The boy ran to obey, eyes wide in confusion. Sandor grabbed the saddle from him and put it on Stranger, but the moment he saw the boy turn his lust filled eyes on his little bird and smiled he lashed out, landing a hard punch on the boy's jaw. He heard Sansa gasp as the boy hit the ground with a hard thump, his head slamming against the stall. He put the saddle on in a hurry and grabbed Sansa by the waist.

"Real riding again for the night," he rasped and she swung her leg around obediently. He led Stranger out of the stable on foot before mounting. He rode off to silence. No one from the tavern had dared follow him. They were far too frightened to dare try and stop him. He rode at a fast trot for an hour or so before slowing his pace. It would be days before the Queen would know what had happened and send a team after them. By then he planned on being far from that tavern.

"I was looking forward to a bed," Sansa said sadly.

"When we are farther North little bird," he told her. It had been a mistake to stop at that inn, but he had wanted to make his little bird smile.

"I'm tired," she told him as they rode off into the darkness.

"Sleep in the saddle," he said. "I will not let you fall."

"I know you won't," she whispered, leaning her back against him. He rode more gently as she fell to sleep, enjoying the feel of her in his arms. He closed his arms around her more firmly, wrapping one arm around her waist and pulling her against him. He knew she would not allow it were she awake, but the feel of her small body in his arms brought him an odd sense of peace. He felt purpose. For the first time in years, in his memory even, he felt like he was doing something good.

He lowered his head to the top of her head, breathing in her scent. Her body was giving off an enjoyable heat that felt nice against him, and she smelled sweet. He moved his head to the side of her face and inhaled again. He scarcely knew how he was going to let her go when he arrived at Riverrun. The feel of her body in his arms was too heavenly, too sweet. He wished he could just ride away, ride for the coast and sail to the free cities. Keep her with him, whether she wanted to stay or not. Eventually she would learn to tolerate him, give herself to him willingly.

His fingers stroked her side gently, feeling her growing curves. When she grew, became a real woman, she would be irresistible, and she would make some man, some knight or lord, very happy. He growled at the thought. He kept his head bent toward her so he could smell her. He didn't know when he made the decision, but he pressed his lips to her cheek. He pressed the side of his face to hers, his burnt flesh against her perfect. How could something so innocent be so trusting of someone like him? She let out a little noise, and she shifted against him. He pulled back, expecting her to awake, but she only pushed herself harder against him, seeking his warmth. He put some pressure on the arm around her waist, pulling her closer.

_I would die for her, _he realized.

"Don't worry, my little bird," he rasped softly. "I'll give you your wings back. I promise."

()

Sandor fell asleep in his saddle as the sun began to rise but when he woke up Sansa was awake, the reigns of Stranger in her hands. He grunted, rubbed his good eye, and looked up to the sky. It was dark and cloudy, so he could not see the sun to tell what time it was, but he had a sense it was near mid day.

"I did not know where we were going," his little bird told him, putting the reigns back into his hands. "So I just kept us going straight. The horse stopped moving for a little bit but I eventually got him to keep going."

"You could have woken me," Sandor grunted.

"You had been up for a long while and if we need to fight you need to be well rested," she informed him and he laughed.

"If _we _need to fight?" he asked. "If _we _need to fight you need to learn to hold a knife."

He reached for his boot and pulled out a dagger.

"Here, get used to the feel of it in your hand, and try to imagine sliding it into someone's jugular," he told her. He could see her nose crinkle as she looked at it.

"I do not want to kill anybody."

"No? Not even Joffrey?"

She was silent and he had his answer.

"There is nothing more satisfying in this world that killing someone, little bird. You'll figure that out one day," he told her.

"I'm not a killer," she said firmly.

"Keep the knife anyway," he grunted. "Might be you'll need it."

"I need a moment of privacy," she said and he laughed in response.

"You'll get none out here," he replied but she turned her neck to look at him.

"_No_," she snapped at him. "I need… I need to…"

"Don't wander too far," Sandor said and got off the horse. She reached out for him out of habit, placing her gentle hands on his shoulders as he grabbed for her waist. When he lowered her to her feet he thought for a second that her hands lingered there, brushing against the hot skin of his neck. But once she was off and walking toward some thicker brush, he discarded the notion.

He leaned against a tree, his back in the direction his bird had went, and went about relieving himself. When he was finished he listened for any movement. Hearing none he called out her name, only to receive a very angry response that she needed to be left in peace. Hearing such he decided he might have enough time to do what must be done. He rapped his hand around his frustrated member, closing his eyes and remembering what her fragile body felt like in his arms last night, the way her hair smelled and her soft cheek felt against his rough lips. He did his best to keep quiet as he pumped his hand back and forth, and shuddered as he climaxed.

His little bird had still not returned when he finished placing his soft member back into his breeches, and so he went about giving Stranger some crab apples. He munched on them happily, snorting in pleasure as Sandor patted him. When Sansa came back she had a big red blush and a grimace on her face. Sandor bit back the urge to say something crude to her and lifted her back up on Stranger.

"I need to bathe," she informed him.

"Yes, you do," he replied, though she did not seem to understand it was meant as a joke. She replied haughtily and with unprovoked anger.

"And you think you don't? You smell vile and look like you scarcely know what a bath is."

"Manners, Lady Sansa," he replied coolly. "I can't return you to your mother a barbarian. She might not want you back otherwise, and I will have to keep you to myself. Perhaps, if that is the case, you can teach me to bathe adequately."

"Stop it!"

"Stop what?"

"Stop being so vulgar," she snapped.

"This is not vulgar, little bird. I can be vulgar if you want to know what it really sounds like."

"How could a man be more vulgar than suggesting a lady teach him how to bathe?" she asked and Sandor could see the blush creeping up her back and neck toward the top of her head.

"By telling you, rather than suggesting, that what I really want is your hands on my cock, my tongue in your mouth, and your little arse in my hands," he told her and felt her stiffen.

"Stop," she snapped.

"You wanted vulgarity, little bird," he rasped.

"I asked you to stop, not to become even more vulgar," she snapped again, but he could hear tears in the back of her throat.

"It is time you grew up," he said harshly, but did not continue his taunts. He did not want to see her cry. She was still seated side saddle and so it was easy for her to jump from the horse. She grunted as she hit the ground and her knees bent, but she pushed herself up. He cursed when she began running in the other direction. He wheeled Stranger around and hurried after her. He kept at a safe distance, telling her to stop her foolishness and get back on the horse but she continued to run. He followed her until she could run no longer, and when she slowed to a fitful walk he got off the horse.

"Stop following me!" she yelled, crying now and out of breath. "Leave me alone!"

"What are you going to do out here all alone, little bird? If you are not raped or killed you will be taken back to Joffrey, where you will be raped and killed," he said, pulling Stranger behind him.

"You are so cruel," she cried. "You are supposed to protect me."

"I am protecting you," Sandor told her, feeling slightly stung by the accusation in her voice.

"My feelings need protecting as well you know," she called back, wiping her nose with her hand. He was close enough now to reach out and grab her, and he swung her around by the shoulder. As she spun she moved toward him, but when he expected her to melt into him and sob, she began punching him hard in the chest. He felt little, his breastplate and leathers shielding him from her weak little blows, but her distress bothered him. He allowed her to punch at him with her fists, and even when he saw blood on her knuckles he allowed her to continue.

She wept, and cried, and sobbed, as she hit him. When she finally stopped, all her energy gone, her caught her before she fell to the ground in a puddle of tears. His little bird was only so strong it seemed, and he blamed himself for pushing her too far.

"Hush now, little bird, it's all right," he said softly, picked her up like she were a babe in his arms. After gently placing Sansa on the ground at the base of a large tree he hobbled Stranger. When he turned back to Sansa she was looking up at him with sad, wet eyes.

"Everything was supposed to be so good. I was going to marry Joffrey and be his queen. My father was there, my family… even Arya and Jon Snow… everything was supposed to be perfect," she told him as he stood there watching her. She cradled her bruised knuckled in her lap. He knelt down in front of her silently and took her hands in his. He was as gentle as he could be as he inspected the torn, swollen skin.

"At least we know my breastplate works," he said and though his voice was dark and raspy, his heart was lightened by the little smile she gave him. He felt her eye son him as he removed some of his armor. He cut off some of the fabric of his baggy tunic underneath, and gently rapped her knuckles.

"We will find the river again and wash the cuts out. They are superficial, so there is no risk of infection. All the same, a beautiful little bird needs clean hands," he told her. "We can bathe as well… separately of course…"

"You really don't smell all that bad," she whispered, looking at the fabric wrapped around her knuckles. He scooped her up and brought her over to Stranger. When he put her back on the horse he looked at her.

"Are you going to be jumping off again?" he asked. She shook her head shyly. He got up behind her and turned back north. They were off the road anyway and so he did not have to worry about making it back. North was north right now, and as long as they could avoid the gold cloaks, it mattered little. Sandor was in no real rush to return the little bird. Precaution was better than speed.

Only a few moments after they had resumed their ride he felt her leaned back into him. It was impulse that made him wrap his arm around her middle, as he had last night. He waited for her to push him away, to shout at him or burst into tears again but she remained silent. After a momentary stiffening of her muscles she raised her arm, laying her hand over his. It nearly brought a smile to his lips.

()

A/N: Thanks for the reviews! Let me know what you think!


	11. Chapter 11

_**Sansa**_

True to his word the Hound found the river again and they stopped to make camp when it began to get dark. The place they stopped was a tiny clearing twenty yards or so from the water's edge, and surrounded by thick brush. It was only found because Sansa needed to relieve herself and stumbled upon it. Rather than using it for privacy she returned to where she had left the Hound and told him of it.

She was proud when he appraised it favorably and could not keep the smile from her face. The Hound's lips twitched when he looked back to her, but he said nothing in return. The Hound tied up the horse and went to collect water for them. Sansa set about finding wood for a fire but the Hound shook his head as he returned.

"No fire tonight," he told her as he handed her a flask he had filled with water for her. Apparently he had stolen it from a man at the inn the night before. The flagon he had gotten from the inn still had a little wine left in it, and Sansa did not think he would be willing to fill that up with water until he had drained what was left of the wine.

"No one found us the night before," Sansa argued, terrified of a long cold night on the hard ground. "And we are better secluded here…"

"And now we have gold cloaks after us, men from that tavern that would no doubt take advantage of the reward they would get for you…" he explained and reached into his saddle back. He fed a crab apple to the horse.

"How long until we can go to another inn?" she asked and he shrugged.

"Don't right know. I was lucky no one recognized me last night. Might not be so lucky next time. I'd say we stay off the road and away from inns until we reach the river lands."

"The river lands!" Sansa cried.

"We are right between Casterly Rock and King's Landing. Dangerous places to be for both of us," he rasped.

"But if we use fake names no one will recognize us…" she trailed off when he turned to look at her. She bowed her head in embarrassment and shame. The Hound was well known in these parts, and one did not need to have seen him previously to know what he looked like. "I'm sorry, ser –"

"For the last bloody time, girl, don't call me ser," he grumbled, though he sounded more annoyed than angry.

"What should I call you…?" she asked and he gave her a wry smile.

"My name?" he offered sarcastically. "Dog or Hound do just fine as well."

"I would feel odd calling you by your Gods name," she said, struggling to leave off the Ser. "It would feel too… familiar…"

"Have we not bridged the river of familiar, little bird?" he asked and turned his back to her.

"Very well, Sandor…" she said. The name felt odd on her lips. "Then you will call me Sansa."

"Little bird suits me just fine," he replied and she flushed with anger. If he refused to be called Ser than why would she not refuse to be called bird? It was a cruel taunting name he had bestowed upon her while he was drunk. He did it to remind her how much power she lacked, or weak her will was. She hated it more than anything, but she did not have the courage to tell him that. Though the Hound, Sandor, hated the arrogance of the Knighthood, he seemed just as proud.

"I am going to bathe," she said curtly and stood, heading toward the river. The air was getting colder each day it seemed, and with the sun about to disappear over the distant horizon, she wanted to avoid losing all the warmth. She stepped through the brush, trying to stamp down the anger she felt at the Hound, Sandor, right now. He was a drunk and a killer, rude, unfeeling, cruel, smug, arrogant… and following her.

She whirled around to face him, her cheeks pink with anger. He stopped before her, looking down his nose at her with a furrowed brow. His burnt flesh was hidden from her view by his thin hair, though she could see the pink and black flesh peaking through from beneath.

"What are you doing?" she asked after a pause.

"Going to the river," he replied.

"Why?"

"You said you wished to bathe," he responded simply. She watched the way his mouth moved, the taught flesh making the left side of his mouth move awkwardly.

"You promised we would do so separately," her voice was tight as she spoke, anger bubbling up within her. His intentions were clear enough. He meant to try to seduce her again, and when that failed he would taunt her and say cruel hurtful things.

"And we shall, though I desire to be close by, should we be overcome while you are in such a vulnerable state," he rasped and she suddenly felt guilty. She turned away from him without a word and continued back toward the river. She listened to his footsteps behind her, breaking and cracking sticks and dead leaves as he went.

When they approached the riverbed Sansa glanced around to see if there were any signs of anyone nearby. When she was satisfied she glanced to the Hound. Sandor.

He was looking around as well, but nodding slowly. When his eyes landed back on Sansa he motioned to a large tree.

"I'll just be standing over here," he told her. "Make it quick."

She checked three times that he was not looking before sliding her dress off over her head and stepping into the cold water. She yelped, but that urged her on faster, frightened that her cry would alert the Hound. Luckily he did not seem to move from his spot behind the tree. She slowly removed the fabric from around her knuckles and dipped the sore skin into the freezing water. It stung, but that was immediately followed with a soothing sensation.

She did not dally long, taking only as much time was needed to wipe the dirt and grime of the past few days from her body and wet her hair. She vaguely know that wetting her hair would make her colder in the night, but it was so greasy and dirty that she did not care. She was a lady after all, and she needed to be clean.

Leaving the river was the hard part. Goosebumps erupted over her wet skin and her nipples hardened against the cool hair. She wrung out her hair so it would not get her dress too wet before pulling the fabric up over her head. She was for the first time thankful that the dress for a peasant. Peasants dressed for warmth and practicality, not beauty.

"I'm done," she told Sandor. She was shaking badly when he came around the corner, but felt her face turn hot when she saw him remove his tunic. His armor had been removed and he was wearing only his breeches now. His body rippled with lean muscle, his arms powerful and well defined. There was a fine smattering of black hair across his chest, but it tapered as it moved lower and eventually vanished underneath his breeches.

"Take this," he said placed his tunic over her shoulders. It was not big enough to make a huge difference, but with the heat from his body still clinging to it it helped warm her some. She looked at him with wide eyes as he walked toward the river, the muscles in his back taut. She felt her face turn brighter, but she could not look away. It was the first time she had seen a shirtless man save her little brothers and Rob, and this was very different. His body was mature and masculine, rippled with muscle and powerful. He turned to face her again and she could not help but follow the trail of fine chest hair downward, blushing when she found the faint outline of his manhood underneath his breeches.

"I didn't get to watch you, little bird," his voice broke her from her staring. She could find no words, her mouth to dry to speak and instead moved to the tree he had been standing behind. There she found his discarded boots, armor, sword, and daggers. She chewed her bottom lip hard, overcome with curiosity. She wandered what he looked like from the waist down. She had felt him, he'd been _inside_ her, but she did not even know what he looked like.

She continued to chew on her bottom lip. Very slowly she leaned over, putting her weight on her hands and peered around the tree. Her face turned red as she did so, mentally preparing herself for what she might see. Her stomach flip flopped in her stomach as she peered at the water, searching for him. Still he was nowhere to be found. She frowned deeply and leaned over further.

"Peeping, little bird?"

She jumped and let out a little cry. Standing to her left was the Hound, water dripping down over his pale skin, his hair wet and pushed back to reveal his entire face. His mouth was twisted into an amused grin and he had a knowing twinkle in his eyes. She could not help but dart her eyes lower, but he had put his breeches back on by this point. It seemed he bathed must faster than she did.

"Naughty, naughty, little bird. What would your Septa say?"

"My Septa's dead," she snapped. She was not so much angry at him, as she was embarrassed. It was easier to be angry with him than to admit to her rude and embarrassing behavior.

"So that makes it OK?" he asked and took his tunic from her.

"I wasn't…"

"Wasn't what?" he asked. She could not deny what she was doing without admitting it at the same time. Anything she said would virtually be an admission. He laughed when she jumped to her feet and stormed off toward their camp. When she arrived she went about setting up a fire, regardless of what he had told her. Her face burned with anger and humiliation as she stacked the wood. She was rummaging through his saddle bag, looking for the two rocks she had seen him strike together to start the fire two nights before, when the Hound returned.

"What are you doing?" he asked and looked toward the wood. The sun was now set, but some light still made it over the horizon.

"I'm starting a fire," she told him imperiously.

"Seven hells you are," he replied and approached her.

"It's cold," she said just before he grabbed onto her wrists and pulled them from his bags.

"I'll keep you warm," he rasped and she tried to hit him again like she did before. Too many emotions were bombarding her. She was confused, scared, in pain, and cold. She missed her mother, and her brothers and her sister. She wanted her father to be alive. She wanted her Septa to be there to tell her what to do. She wanted a real knight to have rescued her, like in the stories, not the Hound. He was rude. He was course. He was ugly.

"No more," he told her but she continued to strike out.

But he had saved her. He kept her warm at night and made sure she had food. She remembered how gently he had taken her hands in his after she had finished striking him. How his fingers moved over the bruised skin so softly, the look in his eyes, sad and searching. She didn't know which Hound was real. When the man would come forward, and when the dog would.

"_Enough_," he rasped softly when she tried to hit him again, this time in his ugly face. She struggled but he managed to spin her around, pressed her back to his chest and pinned her arms to her body with his own. She wept as he lowered them down to the ground by the horse's feet. He stomped but did nothing else. Sandor's arms stayed wrapped around her firmly, holding her body to his protectively. Her arms relaxed and he let her turn in his lap.

"Now, now, little bird, you're all right," he told her. His voice brought her comfort. She liked that voice she realized. She liked it when he spoke. She moved closer to him, pressing her face into his neck, wanting to feel the warmth of his skin.

"I'm sorry, Sandor," she cried into his neck. She felt one of his big hands touched her back and press her closer.

"For what, little bird?" he asked, his hand rubbing little circles on her back.

"You have been ill treated by me," she told him between hiccups.

"Is that what you call it? Ill treatment." he asked and she felt his chest rise and fall as he laughed.

"You are a truer knight than any of them were," she shuddered.

"Knights belong in fairy tales, little bird. They are nothing but men with imagined titles."

"It's supposed to mean something though… the title," she said, bringing her hands up to rub her eyes. She sniffled and leaned into him, enjoying his warmth.

"In the songs it does. We don't live in songs, Sansa," he rasped in her ear. She nodded, her eyes growing heavy. She felt him lift her and move a little further away from the horse. He settled them back down against a tree. The sun had gone down and the sky was black, stars peering down at them.

"Sandor?"

"Yes?"

"I won't fall asleep on my watch this time," she told him. He said nothing and she ran her finger over one of the metal studs on his armor.

"Sleep, little bird," he ordered. With a little nod, she obeyed. As she fell off to sleep, she realized she didn't dislike the name 'little bird' anymore.

()

Thanks everyone for the reviews! I hope you enjoy this chapter and the new developments!

Happy Reading.


	12. Chapter 12

_**Sandor **_

Sandor woke up to small hands pawing and clawing at his neck. The ministrations were urgent and insistent, immediately shaking him from his sleep. His blood coursed hotter as his eyes fluttered open to darkness, but he heard the voices at once. He grabbed Sansa's hands and stopped her pawing and clawing and she stilled when she realized she had successfully woke him up.

He slowly slipped her off his lap and onto the ground beside him. Slowly, and quietly he grabbed his sword off the ground. He heard Sansa's intake of breath and raised his hand to silence her. The voices were far off but getting closer. He moved to a tree on the opposite side of the camp and waited. The wind carried their voices toward the camp and Sandor struggled with determining the distance. He tensed when he felt Sansa behind him, grabbing onto his left arm. He turned toward her and spoke to her quietly. He tried to be gentle, sensing her terror, but the urgency took precedent in his voice.

"Hide in the brush and be silent." He felt her hands squeeze his arm one last time before she reluctantly moved away.

When he saw the flickering of the torch light he felt some of his anxiety leave him. He managed to determine there were only two voices and the men were of small build. It became clear though, when their path zigzagged and turned, back tracked and twisted, that they were not simple travelers, but were searching for something or someone.

"I saw the footprints," one of the voices drifted to Sandor's ears. It was the voice of a boy it seemed, well into adolescence, but it still held the flavor of youth. When the next voice reached his ears his hand tightened on the pommel of his blade.

"Shut up," the stable boy hissed. "If you wake up the Hound we're both dead."

"This is a bad idea, Alston. Please let's just go back," the other pleaded softly. Sandor would have no trouble killing them both, but he knew Sansa had a soft heart, and if she could hear them as well, she would no doubt be saddened by that one's death.

"We slit the Hound's throat while he sleeps, take the girl, bring her to the queen. You heard what they said at the tavern. That was Sansa Stark. I don't never want to work at that fucking stable again," Alston the stable boy responded. Their voices were coming closer now, right toward the Sandor.

"You said we was going to do bad to the girl though," the slower of the two said. Sandor felt his blood heat. It was a slow simmer, the more he thought on those words, the harder his grip on his sword became. "Won't we get in trouble for that?"

"Not if we say the Hound did it. Think he hasn't raped her? Then you're an idiot Frieder."

"I don't want to hurt nobody –"

His voice broke off when he tripped, a curse leaving his lips. Alston the stable boy whirled on him and hissed at him angrily. He pulled him to his feet and they continued on. Sandor felt himself grow insulted. Boy's chasing glory, gold and pussy, did stupid things, but to think that they could catch him unawares… it was insulting. Slowly he slid his sword from his scabbard and grabbed a dagger from his belt. No shielding would be necessary in this fight. If it could be called a fight. He glanced back at Sansa, though he could not see her in the darkness. He hoped she was underneath the brush, and he prayed to the Gods he did not believe in that her eyes were closed.

The first kill was the sweetest. He slipped the blade of his dagger into his soft throat, watching his face in the torch light as surprise turned to recognition. As recognition turned to fear and fear turned agony. It was only a fleeting moment, but it was enough to fill Sandor with immense satisfaction. As the stable boy and the torch fell to the ground Frieder turned to flee. Sandor stuck out the arm that wielded his great sword and stuck it into the center of his chest. He felt the steel grate against bone as it slid through his sternum, nicking a rib on its way in.

He hit the ground with a hard thud but Sandor paid no mind to it. He reached down and grabbed the torch, grinding it into the dirt and stomping on it with his boot. It took some effort but eventually the flame was stamped out. By the time it was distinguished Sansa had crawled out of the brush and ran to him.

"Do not look," he rasped and turned her away from the bodies. But she did not appear to be interested in the dead boys. She wrapped her arms around him and let out a few shaky breaths before stepping back. He could see her fight to keep control of herself and she nodded very slowly.

"It is good I did not fall asleep again," she said and forced a little smile. He struggled to see her in the darkness, but he was impressed with her strength.

"It is, little bird," he agreed and patted her back gently.

"Do we move on now?" she asked, fighting to keep her eyes off the dead boys. Sandor moved to he stood between them.

"I do not think we need to. These fools came alone I think. I won't be sleeping again tonight though. Get some rest," he told her gruffly but she shook her head, looking off into space to his left.

"I shouldn't think I will be sleeping either," she replied softly and he nodded.

"Do you mind walking?" he asked. He did not want to ride Stranger in the dark, out of fear he might misstep and hurt himself.

"I can walk just fine," she replied and Sandor nodded.

"Alright then. Let's get walking."

()()

"When my father died I was working on a cross stitch for him. It was a dire-wolf, it looked like Lady. I was just putting in her yellow eyes when it happened. Lady was the smallest of them all. She had thick grey fur and she loved it when I scratched her ears."

"I had a dog once," Sandor told her. "A pup. Named him water. Stupid name I know, but I was eight and my face had just melted off. My mother got him for me, after I recovered. Found it five days later with a snapped neck. 'Only three dogs belong to the Clegane family' my brother said."

"That's terrible! Siblings ruin everything. It was all Arya's fault."

"Still blaming your sister?" Sandor asked. Sansa was up on the horse now, and the sun was beginning to rise, but Sandor still walked beside Stranger, leading him with the reigns. "That was the Queen's doing, little bird. Your sister tried to defend your wolf."

"She started it. She shouldn't have been playing with Mycah."

"You do remember then. What really happened? What did I kill that little boy over?" Sandor asked and there was silence for a moment. When he glanced back his little bird's head was hung in shame.

"Arya told the truth… but I had been drinking wine. Joffrey said it was alright. I was so confused. I… I…"

"You didn't kill the boy, little bird, I did that. And the Queen killed the wolf," he said simply and looked ahead again.

"I should have told the truth," she whispered. "Maybe then Joffrey would have hated me and we could have gone home. Then none of it would have happened."

"Still a foolish little bird, aren't you," Sandor laughed. "To think King Robert would have broken the engagement because Joffrey wanted to. Robert never loved that boy."

"Was it true what you told me?" Sansa asked softly. "About your burns?"

Sandor was quiet for a long moment. His hands tightened on the reigns and he bit his tongue.

"Yes it was true."

"I heard your bed linen set fire when you were seven…"

"That is the story my father told everyone," he replied stiffly. "Now no more questions about me."

"I've told you all about me," she protested.

"There is only one thing you need to know little bird, and it was the only think I was raised for. Killing people. It's all I've ever been good at."

"You are good at other things," his little bird protested and his lips twitched.

"Oh? And what is that?"

"Well I would not know, Ser, you haven't told me yet," she replied haughtily. He did smile then.

"Call me Ser again and I will tell you nothing," he rasped.

"Sandor," she said curtly.

"I'm good at drinking… and whoring," he told her and she huffed. "I am little bird. So good in fact that the whores charge me three times as much as a regular man, but you, you gave it to me for free."

"You wear your cruelty like you wear your armor," she replied softly. "I am trying to get to know you."

"You know me, little bird," he rasped.

"I know the Hound, not the man," she said and Sandor felt an odd sensation in his chest. It hurt, but it felt good. It was a constriction, but a release. His heart sped up and slowed down, but when he spoke again, it was with more coldness than he had ever directed at his little bird. He did not know how else to proceed.

"The man died when I was eight, and the dead don't come back to life."

"I've tried hating you, Sandor," he heard her say gently. He heard her lean forward and she put a hand on his shoulder. "And you have tried to make it easy for me, but I can't hate you. The last time I felt this safe, Lady was alive."

He shrugged her off.

"I'm not your bloody pet, girl," he grumbled. She was silent the rest of the day.

()

Stranger needed real food, not what Sandor could find along the way, and he needed a rest. The past week he had been ridden hard and Sandor feared for his safety. So he entered the little town a few leagues from Acorn Hall reluctantly. He found a place for him to stay the night, be watered, fed, and brushed, and a little inn for them to stay. The town was much quieter than the last they were in, and he was grateful for it.

Sansa had not spoken since the morning, but she did not appear angry with him. It was he that was in the sour mood, but no matter how gruff he was she kept the little smile on her face. He left her in the room they had rented with the dagger he given her. He taught her a few quick moves that a woman could use to take down an opponent twice her size and left. She begged him not to leave her alone but he told her she would be fine and ordered her to lock the door behind her.

"You only open that door for me. Understand?" he asked and she nodded. He glanced back anxiously at the inn as he walked down the little dirt road that made up the entire town.

"This town used to be something," a man called to him as he walked down the street. "Used to be bustling, then that Mountain came in, burning everything in sight, killed our boys, raped the women… just a few of us left now."

"I bet you have some wares for sale then," Sandor said and approached the man. He was leaning in the doorway of a little shanty, wearing what used to be a white shirt, now stained with blood, sweat, dirt and shit.

"What the monster didn't take," the man said and ducked inside. Sandor followed, crouching down low to get under the door frame. Inside was a little treasure trove. Women's dresses draped over old chairs, men's tunics and breeches, boots of every size, gold trinkets and the life. Little wooden figurines scattered a table on the far side of the little shack.

"I'm surprised the others haven't robbed you yet," Sandor said looking everything over.

"Everyone that could have killed me was taken by the Mountain. Now only the old and sick remain. Plus, I take care of those I can, they don't begrudge me anything," he replied, flashing decaying brown teeth in a sad, twisted smile. Sandor nodded slowly. He looked at the dresses, all linen and wool, nothing very fancy, nothing that would arouse suspicion, but more pleasant than the brown wool she wore now. He wondered which Sansa would like more before grabbing the blue one. He had always liked her in blue. He'd like to see her in it again.

"Have any cloaks?" he asked. "Something thick, practical. Something that would keep a girl warm in the harsh cold," he asked.

"I do!" the man yelled in excitement. "It's worth quite a bit though. Took it off a soldier I found not too long ago. Real nice quality. You know what they say about Tywin Lannister I bet."

Sandor watched as he dug in a chest and pulled out a thick, red cloak worn by Lannister knights.

"Anything that is not… crimson?"

"Don't like the Lannister red? I can't blame you, after what I have seen done to my people. I have other cloaks. Not as thick and warm as this though. All different colors. Grey, Blue, Yellow…"

Sandor looked down at the blue dress he held in his hands. He wandered what she would look like draped in a yellow cloak. _His _colors. His hands tightened around the blue fabric and he ground his teeth together.

"Whichever is the warmest. I care little for fashion," he replied. He just did not want to see the look on her face when he presented her with a crimson cloak. He was handed a thick grey cloak of good wool and thick fur around the collar. It was a man's cloak, but it would keep her warm. He paid the man and set out, but paused as he looked at the little table with wooden figurines.

Resting there was a little wooden wolf's head, no bigger than the tip of his thumb, with bright yellow eyes.

"It's yours for a copper," the man said and came around to look at Sandor greedily. Sandor reached out and picked up up, feeling it rest in his palm. It was tiny and fragile, like his little bird. All she would need to do was paint it grey when they arrived at Riverrunn, and it would look just like her precious wolf. Sandor put it in his pocket and flung a copper at him.

"Thank you kind ser!" the man called after him. "Some friendly advice for a big spender. If you are heading North stay clear of the Twins. Big wedding there they say. That stark boy calling himself king will be there. I'd move back onto the King's road if you want to avoid any fighting!"

Sandor turned to look at him.

"They aren't at Riverrunn any longer?"

"Haven't been there for weeks," he replied.

"Thank you," Sandor answered and walked back toward the inn.


	13. Chapter 13

_**Sansa **_

When Sandor presented the dress to Sansa she could not keep the smile from his face. She touched the material, looked over the stitching, saw the laces on the back and felt like she was floating. It was a real dress, not as good as the ones she had before, but was fit for royalty compared to the brown sack she wore now. She draped it down on the bed to look at it, and that was when she spotted the cloak. She beamed at him, seeing the grey color, the thick wool, and the warm animal pelt around the top. It would no doubt keep her warm out in the forest, and she would not need Sandor to press up against her like he had before.

"I'll step out so you can dress," Sandor told her after a few moments of watching her admire the news clothing. She turned toward him as he began walking to the door, her cheeks pink with embarrassment. She had not yet thanked him and she scolded herself for being so inconsiderate. She had been angry at him for being so cold to her when she tried to reach out to him, but she had been furious with him when he left her alone in the inn. She did not care that he spent a half hour with her demonstrating how to best kill an attacker twice her size. He should not have left her alone.

But when he returned, knocking on the door and informing her it was safe to open up, her anger had almost immediately dissipated upon seeing him. He had the dress draped over one arm, the cloak draped over his shoulder. She should have thanked him immediately, but she reached out like a child on Christmas with no manner or self control, grabbing the dress from over his arm and taking it into the room with her. He followed her in silently, taking the cloak from his right shoulder. After holding the dress up to her body and spinning around in it, she draped it on the bed for a better look. It was then that he lay down the cloak.

"Thank you, Sandor," he said. "For the dress and the cloak."

He grunted and gave her a nod before closing the door behind him. She moved to the door before undressing and opened it a crack. She was greeted with Sandor's back, but upon hearing the door open he looked down at her over his shoulder.

"Will you be staying right outside the door?"

"I'm not going anywhere, little bird," he told her and she closed the door softly. She threw the old wool dress off of her, glad to be rid of it, and picked up the new one. She slid it on, but despite her struggles, realized she would be unable to lace it up on her own. She chewed on her bottom lip as she arched her back and bent her arms, desperately trying to tie up the laces herself. She groaned in frustration and stomped toward the door, her face already red with embarrassment. She hesitated, her hand on the door knob, and took a deep breath. When she opened the door Sandor had his back to her again, his strong arms crossed over his powerful chest. She was acutely aware of the cool air on the bare skin of her back.

"I need help tying up the back," she informed him and he followed her back into the room, shutting the door behind him. She moved her hair to drape over her shoulder and leave her back open for him. She bit her lip hard as she felt his knuckles brush over her spine, moving down the hardly visible bumps along the perfectly smooth skin. She said nothing when the knuckles touching her skin turned into finger tips, or when the finger tips turned into a flattened hand. His hand was large and hot against her, and she felt a pulsing between her legs. She pressed her thighs together and her eyes wandered over to the bed.

It would be so nice to finally sleep in a bed tonight, if nothing bad happened again, but as she glanced at the lumpy but comfortable looking mattress she was not thinking about sleeping. His hand slid downward and slipped into the fabric of her dress, touching her waist, and another hand appeared. She felt his fingers message her soft curves gently, kneading the soft skin. His hands moved in further, sliding over her flat stomach and up to her rib cage, stopping just under her breasts. Her nipples tightened at the thought of his hands touching her there and she waited, her mouth dry.

"Tell me to stop, little bird, and I will," he breathed close to her ear. She felt his hands put pressure on her and she took a few steps backwards until she was pressed against his chest. Her eyes darted over the bed. Did she want him to stop? She did not know.

"Stop," she whispered her voice soft and weak. But his hands left her and not a moment passed before she felt her laces being yanked at roughly as he tied up the dress. Her eyes were on the bed as he finished, wondering what would be happening right now if she had not told him to stop. Would they be on the bed yet? Would Sandor be inside of her? She shivered slightly, but it seemed to go by unnoticed by Sandor, who was stepping away.

"Are you hungry?" he asked and she nodded.

"Very much so, ser… Sandor," she blushed. "I keep forgetting."

He said nothing but draped her knew cloak over her shoulders. Because of her height it did not touch the floor, as it would have on most young girls, and she was proud of that. The cloak already gave her some warmth, and though the dress and cloak were not new, she walked downstairs as if she had just been given a brand new silk dress. When they sat down Sandor ordered some meat and wine, a flagon for him and a flagon for her.

"I couldn't drink an entire flagon," Sansa told him and Sandor flashed her a rare grin.

"You could if I were a lucky man," he told her. She was not sure what he meant by that. She looked at him, and the moment she realized his hair was pushed back away from his face, he pushed it back to fall over the left side of his face. She felt the question of 'does it still hurt' bubble up from her tongue but she thanked the Seven it did not come out. He appeared in a good mood and she did not want to change that. The ham was placed in front of them, along with two flagons of wine. Sandor paid the man and he went on his way.

"We aren't far from Riverrun now," Sansa said as she cut into the ham. Sandor was stabbing at it with the fork and bringing an entire slab to his mouth, ripping off bits as if her were a pop. "We are just a few miles south of Acorn Hall right?"

"That's right," Sandor said curtly and Sansa thought he must be angry that she was talking about leaving. But she did not understand that. It was him that was insistent on leaving. She wanted him to stay as her sworn shield. Surely her brother would do that for her if she asked.

"How many more days do you think? A week?"

"Depends on how fast we move," he told her.

"What if we continue on this pace," she said.

"Four days… five days maybe," he told her. "But we aren't going to Riverrun anymore."

She looked up from her meal to his face. He was taking a gulp of wine.

"Why not?" she asked, her voice nearly shrill.

"Your mother and brother are at the Twins. I've gathered your brother broke off his engagement to one of the Frey girls. Instead your uncle is marrying one. There's to be a wedding at the Twins."

"The Twins?" she asked, her face falling. "That's another week."

"Another two weeks at this rate," Sandor answered. He looked at her from over his flagon. "You'll be rid of me soon enough, little bird. Do not fret."

"Why is it you assume I am disappointed I will be longer with you and not the truth of the matter that I want to be with my family?" she asked him, laying down her fork and knife daintily. His eyes twinkled but she did not know if it was from amusement, or the wine.

"Why not both? Drink the wine, little bird, I spent a lot on that," he told her. She flushed.

"I didn't ask for it," she mumbled, but brought it to her lips anyway, as to not be rude. She took a few sips and corked it.

"Robb will send me to Winterfell after I see them. You will not stay to escort me?" she asked and froze at the look in Sandor's eyes. "What? What is it?"

"Little bird," he rasped softly. "I had hoped your mother or brother would be able to tell you."

"Tell me what?"

"Theon Greyjoy has taken Winterfell for the Iron Islands," he said and she stared at him in disbelief.

"No, not Theon. Theon was like family," she said.

"But not family," Sandor said. "The boy was always a kraken, never a wolf. Winterfell is lost. No doubt they will keep you in the river lands."

Sansa felt tears come to her eyes but she did her best to beat them back.

"Winterfell has fallen?" she asked softly. Sandor only nodded. She reached out and grabbed the flagon of wine. She took a deep breath and then a deeper swig.

"Your brother will get it back, little bird," Sandor told her and resumed eating. "Greyjoy took a castle protected by a babe and a cripple. He will crumble when faced with an army."

Sansa nodded, comforted by his words.

"Thank you," she told him and he fell silent again. She finished her ham and took a few more sips of wine. By then there was a warmth creeping through her body, her face felt hot, and she felt at peace.

"Slow down now, little bird," she heard Sandor tell her when she uncorked the flagon again. She had begun struggling with the cork, her fingers not doing what her brain told them to do.

"You told me to drink it all," she told him haughtily.

"I did not think you would," he replied and reached out to take the flagon from her. She wretched it away from him.

"I am a lady!" she yelled and he shushed her and stood.

"Oh, yes my lady," he said sarcastically, loud enough so people thought he was mocking her. "You can be a lady upstairs in bed."

A few men cackled, and Sansa stood to go upstairs with Sandor. Her foot got caught on something on the floor, though she could not see anything on the floor, and was saved from falling only by Sandor. She fell against him and began to giggle. She still had her flagon in her hand and was going to finish the entire thing just to show him she could. She lifted the flagon up in her hand to test the weight and frowned. She still had a little over half in it. She let out a little gasp when Sandor wrapped a single arm around her waist and lifted her from the ground. He carried her up the stairs and placed her back on her feet just outside the door. Once inside she lay down on the bed, her arms and legs spread, not once considering how inappropriate the pose was in present company. Were she with a group of girls her own age it would be a way of expressing happiness and contentedness. With Sandor in the room it was entirely different.

"No more wine tonight," he told her and tried to take the flagon from her.

"_No_," she told him. "You have to listen to me."

"Oh do I?" he asked, some amusement in his voice.

"Yes and I say you cannot leave."

"I'm not going anywhere, little bird. Not with you in such a state."

"No. I mean ever," she said sitting back up.

"I order you to swear to be my sworn shield. Pledge it right now," she told him.

"I can't do that, little bird," he said softly.

"You can. You won't," she said and fought with the cork in the flagon. She finally got it undone and took a few sips.

"Here, let me hold it so you do not spill any on your new dress," he offered and she handed it to him, grateful for his good thinking. He corked the flagon and put it on the table on the other side of the room. His own flagon was nearly empty. She reached out for him and he moved to sit next to her on the bed. She reached out to touch his face, his burnt face. Her finger tips trailed over the raised, saw skin. His eyes fluttered closed but he did not tell her to stop.

"Sandor," she said softly and his eyes opened. "Kiss me?"

He gave her a little smile and a little amused "humph" but did not move toward her.

"If I kiss you, little bird, I'll have you on your back before you can blink," he told her and she felt a tremor run through her body. The area between her legs was pulsing and hot, she felt dampness as well. Her stomach tightened and she felt lightening rush through her limbs.

"Do you promise you will stay?" she asked. She followed his gaze to her lips. Her tongue darted out to lick her lips. His head dipped, and she was sure he was going to kiss her but his head dipped back again.

"I'm leaving, Sansa. I promised I'd take you to your mother and I'm going to," he said. "They will not let me stay."

"It doesn't matter what they want," she told him. He smiled, his hand touching her cheek and then sliding down to rest at her neck.

"Yes it does," he told her.

"But you want to stay with me?" she asked him.

"I want nothing more," he told her.

"Then just stay," she pouted.

"You have beautiful eyes," he told her. "Even blood shot and glassy."

She blushed.

"They aren't so bad," she said, running her fingers over his burns again, from the top of his scalp, down to his throat.

"If only the world could be so drunk all the time," he answered.

"Just one more time," she said and moved to sit in his lap. She remembered watching her brothers remove armor after practicing and began unbuckling his breast plate.

"You will be angry with me in the morning if I do this," he told her, though he made no move to stop her movements. She could not lift the plate herself and so he lifted it off and lowered it to the floor. He let her remove the armor from his arms next.

"I won't," she told him. She began pulling at the strings of his leather jerkin, unlacing it at his front.

"You will," he told her.

"I'm angry at you most of the time," she countered and he chuckled, deep and raspy.

"This is different," he told her and she removed the leather jerkin from his body and put it with his armor. Underneath was his tunic, yellow with the black dogs on it, like his surcoat. It was easily hidden though and so he had kept it. She traced the dogs with her fingers.

"Robb used to say we were all a pack," she told him. "Rickon, Bran, Arya, father and mother, even Jon Snow. Dog's have packs too."

"I don't have a pack," he told her.

"Yes you do," she told him. She removed his tunic, and then the light shirt he wore underneath. She felt her face burn as she looked over his bare chest. She wished the candlelight were stronger, but she could make out most of his hard, muscled body. The wine urging her on, she reached out and touched his chest, feeling the fine, dark hair that lay there. Her hand moved lower, down the line that marked the middle of his body, over the ripples of his abdomen. She gasped when he grabbed her wrist and brought her hand lower, pressing it to his throbbing erection.

"Grip it," he said and she obeyed, wrapping her fingers around him through his breeches. "You torture me. How could anyone expect me to say no? I didn't pour the wine down your throat."

Her hand tightened around him a moment before she let go. She reached behind her and managed to untie the laces that held her dress together. It was easier to untie it than tie it. She slid it off over her shoulders and carefully lay it on the foot of the bed. She slid into Sandor's lap and his hand went straight to her breast. His other arm wrapped around her waist and his hand slipped between her thighs.

His finger tips brushed over her hard nipples and played with her between her legs. She moaned and wrapped her arms around Sandor's neck, arching her neck back to kiss him. He pushed his hips up, grinding his clothed erection against her bottom, slipping a finger into her.

"Say no, Sansa," he said and the use of her name brought her out of her daze slightly. "Tell me to stop right now. Tell me you are too drunk, that you don't want it."

"Yes, don't stop, I want it," she whispered back. His lips were back on hers, and she felt herself being lowered down to the bed.

()

A/N:

Sandor still has the wolf's head, he just hasn't given it to her. There is also more to why Sandor wants to leave once he drops Sansa off. That will also be explained. (though the red wedding will occur in this story). Next chapter will explain why.

Let me know what you think! I think I captured what Sandor would do in this situation. Maybe you disagree. I will find out soon I hope!


	14. Chapter 14

_**Sandor **_

Sansa lay snugly in his arms as he stared up in the ceiling, her lithe, naked body pressed warmly against his. A delicate arm was daintily draped over his middle, a light head with a mess of auburn hair lying across his chest, her soft cheek pressing against his skin. His arms were around her, keeping her close to him. It was well past sun rise and Sandor had awaken an hour or so previously, but he could not bring himself to wake his little bird. He knew they had to get on the road if they were going to get to the Twins within the next two weeks, but he did not know if he would ever have her in his arms again. Not like this.

As he lay in bed with her his mind began to wander to a familiar fantasy. He imagined living with her alone in a little cabin, hidden away from the word, in the woods, by the sea, wherever the world could not reach them. He'd have her whenever he wanted. He'd hunt their food, chop their firewood, and when he came home she'd be there waiting for him, welcoming him into her arms and into her bed every day, morning, noon and night. He could take her across the narrow sea, to the free cities. She could not escape him there.

He gently trailed his finger tips over her spine, remembering the night before. After he had laid her down on the bed her hands had moved over his chest and arms, her delicate hands trembling under his powerful muscles. They had trailed down, reaching into his breeches and gripping his erection eagerly. He remembered the feel of her hands on him, stroking his hard, aching flesh as he pressed mouth to hers, trying to consume her completely.

He almost wished he were more like his brother. He would have no trouble stealing her away, earning her hatred. But he could not. The way she looked at him last night as he worked inside of her, the way her hands felt on his face, his burns, it would last him the rest of his life. It would do him more good to remember the look in her eyes last night than have her in his bed every night with her hatred.

She shifted against him and her breasts pressed more firmly against his side. He could take his time going to the Twins though. He could go as far east as Maidenpool and then start North West again for the Twins. He could approach the thickest part of the Trident and then attempt to find a more plausible area to stop. He could add on as much as two weeks to the journey and his little bird would not be the wiser. She did not know the land. If he told her they were moving so slowly because of weather, or in order to avoid outlaws, she would not know the truth. But every day on the road was an extra threat to her safety and an extra strain on her heart.

But deep in his chest was the dread he felt at having to leave her for good. Even afterward, when he laid next to her last night, placing gentle kisses to her hands, and cheeks, and hair, she had asked him to stay as her sworn shield. In that moment he was tempted to swear it to her, just to make her happy, just to know he was not going to have to leave her when they reached their destination.

But once she was back with her family he would lose all hope of ever possessing her completely. He was the younger brother of a lesser lord. And even should Gregor die he would never inherit now, not when he left the Lannisters, stealing away Sansa Stark with him. He had nothing to offer. She would be sold to a lord that Robb Stark needed an alliance with. Even if he were allowed by the King in the North to stay on as her sworn shield he could not accept. He'd kill the first man that tried to touch her. He'd slide his sword through her lord husband's chest and fuck her on their wedding bed.

He felt her shift again, a little moan leaving her lips. He considered rolling her over and taking her again. A woman could not lay with a man at night and refuse him in the morning in good faith. She had touched his face so often last night that he wondered if she would do so again. The skin around his eye was thick and calloused, numb to the touch, but the area by his jaw and cheek bones were sensitive, though not painful. She was the first person since his old maester to have ever touched his ruined face.

He lowered his face to hair and his member, already half mast since he had woken up, sprang to life. She was naked, he was naked. All he had to do was roll her onto her back, roll on top of her, and he'd be inside of her. She had been so wet last night he had slid into her with no resistance, like she was made for him. Her body molded to him perfectly. It would not hurt her, though she might not be, sober as she would be, accepting of him.

He was about to move when he felt her hands move to his chest, her finger tips trailing down in a controlled motion. Her fingers trailed down a vein in his bicep down to his elbow, and stopping at his wrist. He waited and she turned her face to look up at him, her eyes still glassy and blood shot, little circles under her eyes. He thought she was beautiful.

"Good morning," she whispered.

"Morning," he answered with a rasp.

"My head hurts," she said, her voice scratchy.

"I am not surprised."

His hand ran over her back a few moments longer, feeling the velvet skin, before he removed himself from her and slid from bed. She could feel her eyes on him as he dressed, pulling on his undershorts and then his breeches. He sat down on the bed as he yanked on his boots. He turned to look over his shoulder when he felt her finger tips glancing over the skin on his lower back. It was in the area he had a particularly bad scar, red and white raised skin trailing from his mid spine down to his hip. It had been in one of his first real battles in the field.

"I am sure your husband will not be so scarred," he grunted and stood, moving away from the sweet feel of her delicate hands. She said nothing, but as before he pulled his shirt on over his head he saw the hurt on her face. He picked up his tunic, his eyes taking in the black dogs of his house. He was grateful to those dogs. Had they not saved Titos, he never would have been in the position to meet his little bird. His sweet little bird who was going to make some man a wonderful, loving wife.

"It is late," she mused. The window, boarded up though it was, had the bright sun streaming in through the windows.

"We won't get far today," he told her.

"What does it matter, an extra half day, when we are going all the way to the Twins now," she said sadly. Sandor said nothing as he pulled his jerkin on. He would bring her straight to her mother and brother. If only to see her smile.

"Not much I don't think," he answered.

"Can we eat before we go?" she asked, sitting up. She held the blanket to her chest modestly. He only nodded.

"Come, get dressed, I'll need assistance with my armor," he told her.

"Hand me my dress," she said and he gave her a harsh look. She blushed and gave him a little smile. "Please."

Sandor glanced over to where she had thrown her dress.

"Get it yourself," he told her and turned his back. He could nearly feel her balking at him and it brought a little smile to his lips. He turned to looked at her. "Or is the little bird scared for the dog to feast his eyes on her in the day light?"

He watched her jaw set stubbornly and she threw the blankets off of her. His erection returned full force as he looked her over, her perfect pale body, the auburn nestle of hair between her legs, her growing breasts. In his attempt to tease her he was torturing himself. She walked across the room with less than grace than he thought she desired and pulled the dress on as quickly as she could. He had pulled on his leather gloves by the time she was dressed and was finishing the last tie of his jerkin.

"I do love my dress," she told him. He glanced up from his jerkin to look at the dress again.

"You wore blue the day of the tournament, when I walked you back," he told remembered. "And that first day… the first time I ever saw you. You looked like a little cherub. You've grown much since then."

She walked toward him and he handed her his leather bracers. They tied at his wrists and extended one inch below his elbows. They were simple brown leather, beaten and weathered from years of use, but tough and strong. He had similar leather bracers for his forearms that protected the space between his vembrace and pauldron.

"How do you move in all this?" she asked him, struggling with a buckle.

"I wear less than most," he told her, though that was not really the answer to her question. He lifted the breast plate up himself, but lifted his arm so she could fasten the leather buckles underneath. She felt her hands press to the side of his chest, where his jerkin lay uncovered, before removing it.

"It is getting much colder," his little bird mused. "You have all this to keep you warm."

"You have your cloak now," he told her. She was done with the armor now and they stood in the center of the room, looking at each other. She was only a foot or so in front of him, looking up at him with her big blue eyes.

"I might still get cold," she said softly and stepped away from him. She tied her cloak around her neck and looked to him. He grabbed his sword and put it over his shoulder.

"Don't dally while we are eating," he told her and stepped past her and out of the room. He made sure to grab the flagon Sansa had not finished last night.

"I don't dally," she responded as they moved down stairs. A man was leaving the room beside theirs and gave them a wicked grin.

"Didn't think you'd be walking this morning," he said Sansa then looked at Sandor with a toothy grin. "Good on you, friend."

Sandor punched the man in the chest, sending him back through the door behind him and colliding to the floor with a hard thud. Sansa turned to look at him, her skin burning red, and horror on her pretty face.

"You are quite uninhibited with a flagon of wine in you," he told her. She lowered her gaze toward the ground and did not look up all throughout their meal. He asked that some boiled water be brought to them and had her drink it.

"I want to go," Sansa said and Sandor looked up from his food to hers. She still had half a bowl of stew left and her entire loaf of bread.

"We can take the bread, but you have to eat the soup," he told her.

"I just want to leave," she mumbled into her bowl. Sandor frowned.

"I promise we will ride at a brisk pace. I'll walk Stranger when it gets dark and continue on if you want, but we must keep going."

"That's not why I want to go," she said and he had to lean in to hear her, she was speaking so softly and straight toward the table.

"What's wrong?" he asked and looked around. "Do you see someone you know? Has someone recognized us?"

He gripped the hilt of the dagger sheathed in his belt.

"No…" she said and looked around. "They _know_."

"Know?" he asked.

"That man…" she trailed off.

"Embarrassed, little bird?" he asked and slid the dagger back into its home fully. A teasing smile came to his lips. "Last night I would have thought you wanted the world to know. I am surprised you haven't gone hoarse –"

Sansa stood and Sandor let out an exasperated sigh. He grabbed up the bread and followed her out of the inn and toward the stables.

"You honestly think you were the only girl making noise last night? Even if we hadn't fucked last night they all would have thought so anyway," he said and she stopped halfway toward the stables and turned to look at him.

"Why?"

"You think these people don't think you're my whore?" he asked her, surprised at even her ignorance. "Little bird why else would you be with me?"

She said nothing and only stared at him. He moved past her and toward the stables to collect Stranger.

He helped Sansa up onto the horse and swung up behind her.

"You had no problem playing my whore last night," he spit out bitterly after a near half hour of silence. He caught her around the middle before she could jump off the horse and she squirmed against him.

"I want to walk," she snapped.

"I want you to ride," he answered. "So you can get to your mother and brother sooner. The gold cloaks won't be far off now either. We have already wasted too much of the day."

Sandor uncorked the flagon of wine and took a swig. Sansa frowned.

"You wonder why I don't want you to touch me," she pouted. Sandor raised his eyebrows and looked at the side of her face, releasing his grip on her waist. He waited a moment, his arm hovering around her to make sure she was not going to jump.

"And why is that?"

"You make me feel like a whore afterward," she told him. "You use me and then degrade me."

"I'm not a man of pretty words, little bird. If you want that go find your knight of the Flowers."

She looked up at him.

"You do not think that then?"

"Think what, little bird?" he asked, growing impatient with her.

"That I am acting like a whore?"

"I have not paid you," he replied. Her face flushed red in anger. She fell silent, grinding her teeth together. He did not know what she expected of him, to express his undying love? He would hardly do so only to deliver her to her brother and in a sense, her future husband. He would not abandon his pride. Still, when he saw her lower lip tremble slightly he felt a little pull of guilt.

"You are not a whore," he rasped lowly. "No one could call you such."

"I meant what I said last night," she told him. "I wish you would stay."

She glanced up at him.

"I'll miss you."

He felt his resolve weaken again and for a moment he could only look at her, a terrible, hollow, excruciating pain taking root in his chest.

"We still have a week or two," he said gruffly. He would not tell her he would miss her. He would not tell her he cared for her. He would not tell her how badly he wanted her, and not just her body, her heart and soul. If he thought for a moment he could get away with asking for her hand as his reward for bringing her home he would, but he knew it was not plausible. No man would give such a treasure away to a dog like him. He wasn't worthy.

How many times had he tried smiling at a young beautiful girl growing up, only to see her look away or stare back in horror? How many times had he attempted to flirt with a girl, only for her to excuse herself and run away to the safety of her handsome suitor? He had given up quickly ever finding love, and he knew that those girls were nothing compared to the little bird in his arms. If they would not have him, why would she? But he remembered her last night, trailing her fingers over his marred flesh, placing her soft lips to his burnt eyelid.

"They aren't so bad," she kept telling him. It had felt the same as if she had told him he was the most handsome man in Westeros.

"A week or two to change your mind?" she asked him, a little smile on her lips. He tried to smile but there was too much hurt in his heart.

"Perhaps," he lied.

The rest of the day was silent, both lost in their thoughts. Sandor did not speak again until he asked Sansa when the sun was beginning to set if she wanted to continue on through the night. She told him she would rather sleep and he found a little place for them to make camp. She curled down before their fire, choosing to lie down beside him instead of on the other side of the flames. He sat up and brought the flagon of wine to his lips.

Last night had been both amazing and terrible. It had made him believe, at least for a few hours, that she wanted to be with him as he wanted to be with her. When he awoke this morning and held her in his arms he came back to his senses. She would never be his. She was out of his reach, as close as she was. He took the flagon of wine and drained it as quickly as he could, hoping to make the most of the single flagon. It did its job. He swayed, the world blurred, and he felt warmth course through him. He lowered himself to the ground beside her. His world went black before his head hit the ground.

When he awoke the next morning, it was with a knife to his throat.

()

A/N: Sorry for those who wanted a full lemon! One will be occurring soon I promise and I will go into greater detail.

I hope you still like it. I'm not a huge, huge fan of this chapter, but I really wanted to get to next chapter. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed! You guys are amazing!


	15. Chapter 15

_**Arya**_

When she saw the side of his face with the burns, flung to the side by a well placed thrown rock to the face, she felt like all her prayers had been answered. Vindication and excitement coursed through her limbs, along with the overpowering need for justice and revenge. When she had heard the men say 'a Lannister dog' she had thought they had come across a passing soldier, a deserter they might even let join their ranks. Now she knew that was not so. It was not 'a Lannister dog' they had captured, but '_the_ Lannister dog.' Before she could help herself she was reaching down into the muck, collecting a handful of filth in her already stained hands and made to swing. Had it not been for Gendry catching her by the wrist it would have landed all over his disgusting burns. She kicked out at him but Gendry kept a firm hold on her wrist, looking down at her in disappointment.

"You'd join in with this mob? On a defenseless prisoner?"

"That's the Hound!" she snapped. "_Joffrey's_ Hound."

"I know who he is," Gendry snapped back just as harshly. "He never gave me so much as a copper when I worked on his armor or sword, but he's defenseless, no threat. We are not animals."

"No, but _he _is," Arya reasoned, the mud still gripped in her hand, though some of the slime was dripping down her wrist.

"You'd kick a defenseless dog?"

"Kick me all you want girl!" they both turned to look at the Hound at the sound of his deep rasp. He had a cold smile on his warped lips, a hateful glint in his eye. His face was for the most part clean, except for the filth of a standard week of travelling, but he had to lower his face again to keep the abuse being flung at him away.

"Lady Arya!" she heard Lem call and she looked toward him. She saw the Hound look up too, sharply and astutely, but she ignored him. "We have someone for you to see."

"I want to see her too!" The Hound shouted and a soldier came and smashed him hard on the head with the butt of a sword. His body slumped and he was gone to the world. At least for a time. Arya dropped the handful of muck and glared at Gendry as she walked passed. He followed her toward Lem, and the two walked into the little tavern they had been sleeping in. The moment she entered the room she heard her sister's voice, but she shook her head. Sansa was at King's Landing, a prisoner of the Queen's.

"I demand to see him right now," the voice said as they got closer and Arya's ears perked up. It sounded like Sansa, it had Sansa's imperious tone.

"He's going to be tried for his crimes. If he is found not guilty you will be able to say goodbye to him, Lady Sansa," she heard Tom say and Arya began running for the door. Gendry, on hearing the name, followed in nearly as much excitement.

"No, I want to see him now. He is my protector and I demand to see if he is being treated with respect."

When Arya rounded the corner she could see her sister had been crying, he eyes were red and puffy, her face tear streaked, the dust on her face leaving clear tear tracks against her skin. She looked thinner too, but taller, more womanly. She looked so much like their mother in that moment that Arya could have cried, but she only remained rooted to the spot, staring in disbelief. Sansa wanted to see the Hound? He was her protector? It did not make any sense.

"Lady Sansa, did the dog violate you in any way?" Tom asked and Arya watched indignant rage flash across her sister's face. Her skin turned red, her neck slightly blotchy, and she looked like she could kill Tom. Arya herself was shocked at the idea, but then she realized it was true. Sansa only ever looked like that when Arya told their parents Sansa had done something mean and was trying to deny it. Arya felt a hatred for the Hound then, so powerful it eclipsed anything she might have felt before. He must have threatened Sansa to lie for him so they could get away and then he could violate her some more.

"He never touched me!" Sansa snapped.

"Then you wouldn't mind letting one of our midwives examine you?"

"I certainly would! My honor cannot be questions by a bunch of thieves that capture an innocent man and an innocent lady while they are sleeping –"

"Innocent!" Arya found herself shouting. Sansa looked over at her, surprise and shock all over her once devastated, then angry face. Her lips parted and she made a face that Arya always thought resembled a fish when it was on dry land. "He killed Mycah!"

"He only did that because I lied!" Sansa shouted and Arya felt like she was hit by the admission. Though she knew it was true, hearing it come from Sansa so blatantly, almost proudly, hit her hard. "He was Joffrey's sworn shield he _had _to!"

"He didn't have to you liar! You're lying now like you were lying then! He killed Mycah and he raped my sister!"

"He never raped me!" Sansa screamed and it was like they were right back at Winterfell screaming at each other in front of their parents, only now the topics had changed. "I want to see Sandor right now."

"_Sandor_?" Lem laughed from the corner of the room. "Maybe the rabid dog's been tamed?"

"Don't talk about him like that," Sansa snapped. "I want to see him."

"You'll see him later tonight, darling girl," Tom said. "Right now why don't you get cleaned up? Catch up with your sister. Oh, and I think the Hound must have taken this from you, we found it in his pocket."

Arya watched Tom hand something small to Sansa and watched Sansa's eyes fill with tears. Arya felt even more hatred for the Hound as Sansa brought whatever it was Tom gave her up to her heart, pressing it to her chest with closed hands. The Hound had threatened Sansa, made her say all these things. Once Sansa knew she was safe all would be well. The Hound _had _to die.

"Please, just let me see him," Sansa begged as the men began to leave the room. "I just want to see him for a moment, I don't even need to talk to him, just let me know he's alright."

Tom glanced at Lem who gave a little shake of his head.

"Sorry, Lady Sansa. You'll see him tonight."

Arya was left alone with Sansa but for a long time all either girl could do was stare. Arya had imagined being reunited with family before and every time it ended in a tears and a hug, but right now Arya felt a bigger gulf between them than ever before. She looked at her sister, crying over the Hound, and tried to remind herself that the Hound had threatened and raped her. Sansa was only confused. But the vehemence in which Sansa defended him made her sick and aroused an anger she could not dampen.

"You are with these thieves?" Sansa finally asked, a bite in her voice.

"The same way you were with the Lannisters," Arya replied coldly. Gendry looked between them in shock.

"I was never with the Lannisters," Sansa snapped.

"Exactly," Arya snapped back.

"Ladies, please," Gendry said stepping further into the room. "You are sisters."

"My sister would never defend a murderer," Arya snapped, her anger out weighing her reasoning that Sansa was a victim of the Hound.

"I would say the same, but you would most certainly ally yourself with thieves and outlaws," Sansa replied and moved to the window on the far side of the room, craning her neck to look around.

"He's on the other side of the building, being kicked and having shit thrown on him," Arya told her sister, pleased with the horror that came across her face. "He deserves it too. He murdered Mycah! He's Joffrey's sworn shield! He's a Lannister!"

"He is not! He left them and rescued me! He took me away from Joffrey when Joffrey was going to rape me! Sandor saved me from the riots and –"

"Don't call him that!" Arya shouted. The door opened behind them and Gendry moved out of the way for Tom to come back in, a frown on his face.

"We had thought this was going to be a happier reunion. Perhaps, Lady Arya, you should come outside and let your sister rest," he offered and when Arya looked back at Sansa she could see she was trying not the cry.

"I don't understand why she is defending him," she whispered to Tom. Tom jerked his head to the side and took Arya by the arm.

"Come on, let's go, you too boy," he called and they left the room. Arya stalked out of the room angrily and stomped her way over to the Hound. He was beginning to come too, his eyes still closed but his head lolling form side to side. Gendry once again grabbed her before she could get to him. She wanted to kill him herself for turning her sister into the enemy. She fought against Gendry, squirming in his arms, hardly hearing him call for someone to help him restrain her.

"I hate you!" she yelled at him. "You raper! Murderer!"

"Raper?" the Hound rasped. "Is that what she called it?"

Arya let out a shriek and kicked Gendry between the legs. He went down hard, gasping for air and grabbing onto his valuables. She would have gotten to the Hound had Anguy not got her around the middle and dragged her away from him. She was dragged away from him and brought into another room in the building Sansa was being held in.

"If you can't behave yourself you won't see his trial tonight, and I guarantee you you'll get what you want, understand?" Lem scolded her. Arya ignored him but quieted herself, rage pulsing through her. She was left in the room for the rest of the day, silently praying she would get to see the Hound's dead body come night fall.

()

The hood was taken off of Arya's head first but she wished it had been after Sansa. She was angered when she saw Sansa look from side to side, searching eagerly for the Hound. As angry as she was all she wanted to do was cry when she saw it. When her sister's eyes did land on the Hound they lit up and dimmed at the same time, a sad, trembling smile coming to her lips.

"What is this place?" Gendry asked as he was unhooded.

"An old place, deep and secret. A refuge where neither wolves nor lions come prowling."

"I know you," the Hound rasped as the ropes were removed from his wrists, flakes of dried blood following. Arya looked to Sansa and noted the parting of her lips as Sansa examined his wrists from her distance. She did not even seem to care about the way the Hound looked in the torch light, glowing red and orange, even more terrible than usual. Arya ignored the back and forth between Thoros and the Hound. She was too busy watching Sansa watch the Hound. She heard him deny the crimes they leveled against him, but watched Sansa, nodding in agreement, like she had any idea what the truth really was.

"You killed Mycah!" she cried out when his defenses seemed too much. "Jory said you cut him nearly in half and he didn't even have a sword."

She watched him glance toward Sansa and yelled at him again.

"Don't look at her!" She screamed.

"He saved me from King's Landing!" Sansa finally put in. "He rescued me from rapers during the bread riots and he took me away from King's Landing. He was going to bring me home."

"Going to sell you, you mean," Tom said and plucked at the strings of his harp. "How much did you plan on getting for the girl, Clegane?"

"As much as you planned on getting for yours, I would assume," he replied stonily. "Where'd you pick yours up?"

"Do you deny killing the boy, Mycah?"

"The Butcher's boy, correct?" The Hound asked and looked at Sansa. "Yes I killed him, but it wasn't murder. I was Joffrey's sworn shield and he attacked the prince. What was I supposed to do?"

"He was unarmed," Arya told them. "He cut an unarmed boy in half."

"Nearly in half," the Hound corrected her.

"It was my fault Mycah died. I lied to them, to the king, the queen, my father. I lied!" Sansa cried but no one would listen. Arya found it just that no one would hear her plea for the Hound, just as no one had heard her when she begged for Mycah.

When the pronouncement came down that the Hound would face trial by combat Arya felt her stomach sink into her toes. Sansa had mixed emotions, her face showing delight and dread all at once. The Hound laughed and began daring all the men, confidence written all over his vile face.

"Sandor!" Sansa called out as he was given his sword and shield.

"Do not worry little bird," the Hound called, his voice deep and rasping. "I'll steal you away again soon enough."

It sounded like a threat to Arya and she renewed her prayers he would die. When the flame burst into flames, her heart swelled as she saw terror cross his face. Sansa cried out but the Hound only stood there, staring into the flames. When the fight began she held onto hope and when the Hound's shield caught fire she felt blood thirsty victor rush through her, but when the Hound swung the last time the sword broke through Beric's flames, cleaving into him as he had Mycah. Sansa was screaming as the Hound tried to get the flames out and someone let her go.

Arya watched with everyone else as Sansa ran to his side and touched his weeping face, trying to console him. What she said to him Arya did not hear, her anger and disbelief were so great.

"I'm burned, little bird," he cried. "help me, I'm burned."

Sansa hovered a hand over the oozing flesh, disbelief and horror on her pretty face. Arya looked at him, his crying face, like a big baby, and grabbed the dagger from Greenbeard's scabbard. She moved before anyone could stop her, but she stopped just in front of him, as the Hound looked up at her with a snarl.

"Go on, girl. You want me dead so bad. Put it right in," he raised his chin so his throat was bare, but Sansa's delicate hand went to his throat, as if to shield it. "It's cleaner than fire. Go on, make the pain stop. You'd be doing me a favor."

"Arya, _no_," Sansa cut him off, moving to block him from her more fully. "He won now you have to let us leave. Like you promised."

She looked to Tom who shook his head.

"He can go. You stay," Tom answered and Sansa moved to help him and another lift the Hound to his feet. As a large piece of skin sloughed off his arm he fell back to the ground, his head swaying in pain. "Someone come see to these burns."

"I have to go with him," Sansa said. "I can leave with Sandor."

"I am sorry lady Sansa," the voice of Beric Dondarrion came through the dark cave, sending a shockwave through Arya, Sansa and the Hound himself. "He can go but he leaves you and his gold."

"The girl's mine," the Hound rasped, getting to his feet this time. His face was gaunt and pale, his scarred flesh looking more horrible than ever.

"She was, no longer," Dondarrion replied. "She stays."

"No! No I –"

"Little bird, stop chirping," the Hound rasped and she turned to face him. Arya thought she looked like she was about to cry. "Just stay here. We were going to part ways sooner or later anyway."

"But I don't want to!" she cried, tears running down her cheels. The Hound brought up his good arm and touched her cheek wiping a tear away with his thumb.

"I've got a good nose, Little bird. I'm a dog remember."

Arya frowned in confusion, but Sansa nodded. She hugged him then and Arya felt her grip on the blade tighten. She took three steps, catching the Hound's eyes as his good arm wrapped around her sister's small form, but her wrist was seized and the knife fell. That night she watched the Hound ride off into the darkness to the sound of her sister's disgusting weeping. Arya had never felt so cold in her entire life.

()

A/N: Thank you all sooo much for the reviews!

OK, I did not want to go through everything that was written in the book and so I just filled in the holes that occurred with Sansa being present. I really hope you guys like it. And I thought using Arya's POV made for an interesting perspective of where Sansa and Sandor's relationship is from the outside in.

Please Review! Much love!


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